


The Summers Die

by andsotheresparis



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Swearing, Terrorist AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsotheresparis/pseuds/andsotheresparis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wealthy from stealing, damned for killing, encouraged for helping, feared for changing things. Maybe they aren’t horrible, heartless criminals. This single thought is what Marius held on to with all the hope he had in his twenty year old heart. For the people, they had claimed.”</p><p> </p><p>Marius runs away from home only to stumble upon the most dangerous terrorist group in the continent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place (future? I don't really know...) but the monarchy is in place so it's the same names, same system. It's a bit of a slow start for the first two or three chapters so bear with me! I'll update those quickly, then there will be blood and action and sex.

      He is running as fast as he can. The duffel he packed, all too heavy to be running like this, is banging against his hip with every stride. He runs in the dark, avoiding the street lamps, seeing only where he won’t go. Where he can’t go.  
     
      His father is dead. Gone. No answers to be given. No apologies to be heard, said, forgiven. The man he never knew is dead. They shared nothing but blood. He’s dead, now. Buried six feet under with a shameful grave marker. Marius doesn’t have a hard time believing this. You can’t grieve something you never had, there is nothing missing. But there were those twelve hours, that short letter, that told him everything he needed to know and nothing at all. It gave him a direction to follow with no instructions, a desire but no valid reason of his own. It gave him love with conditions.  
     
      The dead man was a good man, as most are. He did the wrong things, perhaps, but all for the right reasons. For love and honor. No matter what he grandfather said, Marius knew this. His grandfather, who blackmailed his father. His grandfather would be damned if he had a grandson who didn’t get the education, the protection, the promising future that follows a pedigree such as his. Fuck pedigree, Marius snaps bitterly as his shoes splash through a puddle. Judging by the smell, it’s more than just water that settled there. Shoes expensive enough to feed the homeless for a month spoiled by their own filthy and waste. The notion makes him laugh.  
     
      Behind him, the footsteps grow louder. He ducks around the corner, off the street and away from the Paris he knows. The footsteps follow. He isn’t running fast enough.  
     
      It’s a horribly warm, damp summer night. The humidity of the last rain makes the air thick. Sweat prickles everywhere on his skin. He can smell himself even above his shoes. He had been stupidly loyal and so, so blind. Now his father is dead, he is alone, and they are after him. He couldn’t be too surprised the police are chasing him. The weight of his duffel is explanation enough. He shuts his eyes against the onslaught of tears, fueled by the anger, despair, and growing fear. Sweat forces his white shirt to cling to his skin.  
     
      He turns another corner before deciding on an alley across the street in the opposite direction. There are fewer street lights and more windows. Perhaps he can climb through one. An underlining fear sinks under his heartbeat, as the police hunt him down in the dark Parisian streets. He is running in circles. The metaphor passes his thoughts but he pushes it aside to turn yet another corner down another alley in a dark city he doesn’t know. He doesn’t have time to worry about his mental state or his emotional well-being. There is another corner, another alley that may lose the footsteps.  
     
      On a sharp turn, down a different alley, the bag with all his belongings takes a wide bounce off his hip and smacks into something that lets out a surprised curse. It’s a man, dark skinned and bald. The stranger nearly blends into the brick wall behind him but he gleams a smile down at Marius who whispers out an apology. Twenty years of polite manners doesn’t go away in twelve hours.  
     
      The footsteps get louder. It sounds like there are more of them now. Marius looks over his shoulder but can’t see in the dark. He moves to take a step towards the street, needing to know if there are more of them so he can simply give up, but a hand pulls him back by the collar. Lights sweep just where he would have been standing. The bald man has a finger up to his mouth, shushing Marius’s protest, and pulls him slowly backwards into the alley.  
     
      “What are you doing? Where are we-”  
     
      “You’ve got to get out of here kid.”  
     
      “I’m trying,” says Marius dumbly.  
     
      The stranger looks at him, then smirks. “You’ve got police on your tail, too?”  
     
      “Too?”  
     
      The man laughs quietly before studying the alley. He jerks his head in the other direction. “This way,” he says, starting up an old fire escape. It creaks with each step and seems to echo in the alley but Marius ignores it. He waits, watching the stranger climb and listening to the pounding footsteps that are starting to drown out their echoes. This stranger could be one of them. He could be a thief. He could be one of those street gamins he’d seen in the paper. Or he could help.  
     
      Marius follows the stranger holding on to the little smile he was flashed earlier that may mean this man’s intentions are to help. Or at least not drastically falling the other way. With the footsteps, there is no hope.  
     
      Once Marius stumbles on to the roof top, the man puts his finger up to his mouth again and points to the corner. For some reason, Marius follows his orders and snuggles under the short wall, hopefully out of sight. The man falls to his side. Both are breathing heavily.  
     
      “L’Aigle,” whispers the man. He is looking at Marius with the same smile but his features are clouded in the night. Marius’s face must have read his confusion and this man must have better eyesight because he clarifies, “My name is L’Aigle.”  
     
      “Oh. Marius Gillenormand,” says Marius on instinct. He cringes, wanting to have said his father’s name instead.  
     
      “Gillenormand? Nice to meet you.” Marius can’t tell if he was joking so he doesn’t respond. The man is moving around, digging in his pockets when he suddenly stops. There is a breath before a spark illuminates the two. He holds the lighter just enough to read the time off of his watch but Marius takes in his face for the first time. He’s not a man, as Marius had assumed. This stranger, L’Aigle, is a kid. In fact, he doesn’t look much older than himself.  
     
      In the dark, Marius’s nerves shudder through his spine. Suddenly a hand wraps around his arm and L’Aigle is sprinting across the building, dragging Marius behind him. The man trips twice but somehow manages to make no noise. They stop at the edge of the building and Marius thinks he’s grateful he lets go of his arm, but the spot suddenly feels cold. L’Aigle flashes him that smirk, then leans over the edge, holding on to the railing. He whistles. They wait. He whistles again.  
     
      “Bossuet?” A voice shouts in a breathy whisper from the darkness below.  
     
      “Courf!” L’Aigle calls back.  
     
      “Where the fuck are you, man?”  
     
      There is a creak and the rusted railing shifts forward under L’Aigle’s weight, over the edge. Marius instantly reaches out and pulls him back to safety on the roof.  
     
      “Thanks.”  
     
      “Never mind, I found you.” The voice calls back with an amused laugh. There are small squeaks coming from the stairs and soon another body is flung over the edge. The man sits up and smiles at L’Aigle, or Bossuet, before apparently changing his mind and punching him in the thigh. “Fuck, Bossuet! What happened?”      
       
      “I thought your name was L’Aigle.” Marius asks, scooting a little away from the two strangers and closer to the ladder. Maybe he made a naive mistake trusting him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Marius considers how quickly he could get down the fire escape, weighing his options between being trapped with the two strangers or the metal collapsing when he’s halfway there.  
     
      “They call me Bossuet, too.”  
     
      “You found a puppy!” The new stranger nearly shouts. “Shit, why did you say anything? Hi there. I’m Courfeyrac.”  
     
      “Marius.”  
     
      “Nice to meet you.” This man is definitely serious. What the hell is wrong with these people? They were out in the middle of the night being chased by police. Maybe they are in a similar situation. Hope fluttered in his chest. Maybe they are running away too. “I’d love to chat more, but we should go. Now.”  
     
      Bossuet asks, “Did you get it?”  
     
      “Of course I got it.”  
     
      “Really?”  
     
      “No, but I'm hoping if I say it enough times it'll appear in my backpack and E won't skin me alive.”  
     
      “He won't outright kill you,” says Bossuet. After thinking he adds, “but he might not let you back in the house which is basically the same thing.”  
     
      “It'll be better than facing Combeferre's,” he takes on a voice, “ _I'm upset the mission failed but glad you are okay although that does mean I'm even more disappointed you_ _failed_ face. Combeferre is like the disappointed parent who wants to know what went wrong, where, how, why, and what we are going to do to avoid it next time.”  
     
      “But really, is that worse?” asks Bossuet with an arched eyebrow. It’s not and they both know it. “Is it worth it to go back and try again?”  
     
      “No. Not with the puppy.” Courfeyrac turns to Marius. “Do you need to get someplace? We can make sure you avoid the police on the way home if you'd like.”  
     
      Marius stammers on his answer and opts to shrug instead.  
     
      “First time breaking curfew, eh?” Bossuet smirks. Marius nodded before he realized it was a joke.  
     
      Courfeyrac studies him. “Jesus, you really are a puppy then aren't you?”  
     
      “This is Marius _Gillenormand_.” Bossuet says. In the dark he raises an eyebrow but Marius misses it. The two strangers share a look. Marius begins to get nervous but Courfeyrac flashes him a warm smile and it really shouldn’t calm him as much as it does. He is naive but he is not dumb. He understands the ties held to his last name.  
     
      “Alright then. Let’s go.”  
     
      “Where are we going?”  
     
      “You can come with us.”  
     
      “Are you sure? I could be a serial killer or something.”  
     
      The two boys laugh. “Trust me, that would only work in your favor,” promises Bossuet.  
     
      “I’m not,” backtracks Marius quickly. “I ran away.”  
     
      “That makes sense.” Courfeyrac says.  
     
      “Why?”  
     
      “You are wearing dress slacks and a tie, attire not conducive to midnight jogs in a city like this. You’re running from the police in the middle of the night and I'm assuming the duffel that says 'M. Gillenormand' is yours, no? It most likely has some silver or jewelry from home. Am I right?”  
     
      Marius put a hand on the bag, suddenly self conscious, but nods nonetheless. Courfeyrac shakes his head, chuckling but it’s Bossuet who speaks next. “We take in strays all the time. You’re more than welcome to come with us. We’ll keep you from the police, feed you, and if you’d like, help figure out the next step.”  
     
      “Why? Why would you do that? I can’t pay you.”  
     
      “We don’t need money.” Courfeyrac states. “Do you believe in the monarchy?”  
     
      “I don’t know.” Marius shrugs softly. It feels like a trick question.  
     
      “Great,” says Courfeyrac earnestly.  
     
      “Awesome. So we’ve established E with love the blank slate but what do we do now?” Bossuet asks.  
     
      “We go home.”  
     
      “Home? Well shit, why didn't I think of that.” Bossuet says with a dramatic palm to his forehead. “Thank the heavens above you found us! Without your wise wisdom I think we would have ended up floating down the Seine.” He sobers up to say, “You know I meant how, asshole.”  
     
      “Wise wisdom?”  
     
      “It's been a long night.” He sighs out.  
     
      Courfeyrac laughs. “Let me think.” He risks a look to his friend. “You know, the river isn't a bad idea.”  
     
      “Hell no. Last time I was in that water I swear I got bit by something and Joly made Bahorel shower in water so hot it burned the first layer of his skin off. Nope. No way. We can think of something else.”  
     
      Marius didn't know what half those words meant but he didn't think he wanted to meet this Joly and the water sounded like a bad idea. He agreed with Bossuet.  
           
      “What about the brick building on the left bank, then? Ponine can pick us up in the morning.” Courfeyrac suggests.  
     
      “Fine.”  
     
      They move much quicker than Marius can keep up and soon he finds himself stumbling, huffing, and struggling through the dark streets behind the two strangers. The sports he played in school did nothing to prepare him for his midnight escape through the city. He has to hand it to Courfeyrac, the man seems hyper aware of Marius's inability to stay with them and pauses every chance they can afford, which isn’t often enough if you ask Marius, but it is just enough to keep him on his feet.  
     
      During one of these stops, Bossuet creeps up with Courfeyrac who is stealing glances of the street around the corner. Marius is leaning against the brick wall with his hands on his knees a few yards away, sucking in for breath.  
     
      “Do you think this is a good idea?” He whispers, his back to Courfeyrac, eyes on Marius.  
     
      “No, of course not. There's no telling how Enjolras will respond.” Courfeyrac replies, noting and mimicking his friends hushed tone without having to see him.  
     
      “He's a Gillenormand.”  
     
      “Yeah. I know. But he is running away.”  
     
      “Supposedly.”      
     
      “Supposedly.” Courfeyrac repeats. He bites his lip before adding decisively, “Either way E would want to know. He'd give him the chance. Marius! Let's go.”  
     
      Eventually, it took twice as long with the breaks for Marius, the three arrive at a building. There is nothing special about this particular building, it is brick with growing ivy up the right side and boarded up windows for the first three floors. Courfeyrac plays with the four locks on the back door while Bossuet keeps watch, Marius tucked safely between them.  
     
      “This is home?” Marius asks before he remembered his manners and after they entered the building. The inside is as nondescript as the outside. Wide, open floors with no furniture, stairs in the corner already creaking, and a few empty pipes floating along the ceiling.  
          
      “This is where we wait.” Bossuet says, heading towards the stairs. Torn between following him or staying with Courfeyrac who has nestled himself by the door with a hand wrapped around something on his hip, Marius stands awkwardly.  
     
      Courfeyrac makes the decision for him. “Go get some sleep while you can.”  
     
      Marius follows him upstairs to the second floor where several mattresses are piled up in the corner. Blankets and pillows neatly folded near them. Bossuet pulled out two mattresses, passed out the blankets, and fell on his bed without a word. He was asleep before Marius had his tie off.  
     
      In the dark, Marius listens to the steady breathing next to him. It fills the room. Despite his desperate attempts to keep them back, silent tears fall down his face. He cries for his dead father and for his equally unknown mother. He cries for disowning his grandfather and his lost future. He cries in fear of his future with two strangers in an abandoned building. Sometime, eventually, he fell asleep. Whether Courfeyrac or Bossuet heard, they never said anything.  
     
      Light dances between the boards on the windows, across his face. Marius sniffs his nose. There is a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.  
     
      “Are you ready to go?” It's the other man, not the bald one. In the light, Marius studies him despite the sleep heavy in his lids. The man, a boy just the same as Bossuet and Marius himself, has chocolate brown hair and matching eyes. Big, kind brown eyes that smile even though Courfeyrac was not.  
     
      Marius nods. While he starts the process of waking, rubbing his eyes and yawning, Courfeyrac studies him. The man turns his wrist to read his watch, then looks back to Marius. Not unkindly he warns, “We have about three minutes.”  
     
      “Okay.” Marius struggles to fight back another yawn. He stumbles off the mattress asking, “Before what?”  
     
      “Hmm?” Courfeyrac asks. His back is turned from Marius, his attention focused on the street outside through one of the cracks in the windows.  
     
      “Three minutes before what?”  
     
      “Before it’s time to go.”  
     
      “Right.” Including last night, Marius had been in the building, awake, for less than twenty minutes, yet somehow he managed to make a mess. His tie is in one corner, his shoes several feet apart in the other. His bag was tucked neatly on the foot of the mattress but has moved halfway under the giant pile of blankets. Even though the apartment isn’t much, he feels bad about leaving it a mess and started to pull his meager belongings together.  
     
      “Actually you have about twenty seconds.” Courfeyrac says turning towards the freckled boy crawling on the floor. Without realizing the precariously stacked blankets, he pulls the duffle out and the tower falls silently across the floor. The older man raises an eyebrow and Marius looked up at him with an awkward smile as if he’s been caught doing something embarrassing (like tidying up an empty building) and damn it if he’s not starting to like the kid. Shaking the anxiety swelling in his chest under the knowledge that this kid has no fucking idea, Courfeyrac quickly heads down the rotten stairs. You aren’t supposed to get attached to strays.  
     
      There’s a short commotion on the stairs. Bossuet apologizes to Courfeyrac with a chuckle before appearing in the doorway. “We’ve got to go.” Marius nods his understand as he pulls up the corner of the blanket he’s folding. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got to go. Now.”  
     
      Downstairs, Courfeyrac is leaning against the door, staring at his watch.  
     
      “What’s the time?” Bossuet asks. Marius stands awkwardly with his bag thrown over his shoulder while the bald man goes to stare out the window just as Courfeyrac had done upstairs.  
     
      “Six.”  
     
      “On the dot?”  
     
      “Yep.”  
     
      “Damn, she’s good.” Bossuet laughs. Marius follows him outside. The three stay close to the brick until a black car pulls up. The windows are tinted to where the inside is nothing more than your reflection and a thick layer of dust dulls the glint of the early morning sun. Bossuet leads Marius to the back while Courfeyrac opens the passenger door up front.  
     
      Marius slides in awkwardly, tugging his duffle bag in after him. The girl driving wears an amused expression and a raised eyebrow. She studies Marius unabashedly with a smirk that makes him nervous. Her brown eyes are as sharp as her teeth.  
     
      “Picked up a stray, I see.” The girl says to Courfeyrac.  
     
      “Ép, this is Marius Gillenormand. Marius this is Éponine. Her bite is just as bad as her bark but she doesn’t eat puppies.”  
     
      “Gillenormand, huh?”  
     
      “Yep. Thought E would be interested in chatting with him.” Courfeyrac says with a reassuring smile to Marius. Marius doesn’t like the way his name sounds on her tongue but he ignores the pressure on his chest manifesting from twenty years of coddling. The words themselves hold more interested weight than Marius could be sure of but he so desperately wants to be friends with Courfeyrac. He needs friends. The threat of falling into a spiraling journey lost in the city without support, without that flashing smile was too dangerous of a weight on his chest.  
     
      “And I thought today was going to be boring.” Éponine laughs, putting the car in the gear and taking off through the waking city. No one talks in the car so Marius looks out the window and watches the few people mulling about. Bakers were the only ones up at this ungodly hour. The honest people stayed inside while they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> lesmisismyfavorite.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat and hear any prompts!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine knows she's in trouble and Enjolras is unapproachable at best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are a bit slow but it picks up soon!

     He had fallen asleep against the window on the third circle around the city. It was a risk Éponine was taking to be exposed for that much longer yet with a stranger in the car, a Gillenormand nonetheless, it’s a necessary risk. One they take when ever they pick up a stray. No matter how cute he is. If driving longer meant she could listen to those short little snores that escape this particular strays mouth as he slept, well then Éponine could justify one more circle around the block. She considers risking another glance over her shoulder to the freckled boy, all sleepy and peaceful but surely Courfeyrac had already noticed her interest. She didn’t want to risk getting the knowing quirk of an eyebrow this early in the morning.  
     
     The house finally comes into view and she focuses on driving the car through the wrought iron gate instead of the sweet sniffling sound Marius just made. He does it again and she caves. It is well worth the almost concerned glance Courfeyrac sends her when she looks over her shoulder to see Marius stirring against the window as the ground under the car shifts from cracked pavement to gravel. His heavy eyes are hazy with sleep and he is just so damn innocent looking.  
     
     Éponine decides she needs Grantaire and a drink. Or seventeen. Her self-control is fleeting so she parks the car in the driveway instead of the garage. It’s quicker. If Courfeyrac thinks it’s strange, he doesn’t say. He can probably already hear her heart beating anyway. She’ll prepare herself for that inevitable chat by drinking herself stupid.  
     
     The four stumble out of the car, Marius trailing behind a falsely confident Éponine and an apprehensive Courfeyrac. He has a good feeling about the puppy but that doesn’t mean he is right and it definitely doesn’t mean Enjolras will agree. It doesn’t help that he failed to get the papers. That will only add to the suspicion and disappointment. He just hopes Combeferre is around. If he’s not, Marius may have to hide out in the closet.  
     
     The house is more of a manor than a mansion. It is home to the twelve of them and still half the bedrooms remain empty. Jehan and Combeferre had found it right after the first protest-turned-riot once everything changed. Danger settled into their daily routines and there was no heading back from their decision to act.  
     
     In the foyer, Marius spins around staring up at the vaulted ceiling and the parallel stairs leading up to the second floor. Éponine pats his arm as she walks past him and towards the kitchen in the back corner of the house. Bossuet disappears upstairs, passing Combeferre with a few friendly words on the way. The stranger still looks wide eyed around the new house in a mix of amazement and disbelief. Courfeyrac watches, praying this isn’t the mistake that would bring the walls down around him. Trapping his friends inside. If it is, he only prays he’s trapped with them.  
     
     He lets out a low whistle. “This is bigger than my grandfather’s house.”  
     
     “We get by.” Courfeyrac shrugs. He likes the house well enough. It comfortably fits them all with a large chunk of land protecting them from nosey neighbors or curious police but most of what Courfeyrac loves doesn’t come from the house. It comes from his friends. Jehan’s freshly picked flowers beautifully placed through out the white walls add delightful pops of color and his garden out back fills the air sweetly. Grantaire’s sketches can be found wherever the cynic holed up for that particular bout of creativity. Beer bottles litter the kitchen from the night before and coffee cups litter the living room from the morning. Courfeyrac loves the shoes little Gavroche is always leaving around the house and Bossuet’s constant curses after tripping over them. He loves that you can hear Enjolras’s footsteps when his stress levels escalate well into the night and the whistle from Combeferre making him tea echoes up the stairs in his warm attempt to combat the insomnia.  
     
     Judging by the hint of dark circles under Combeferre’s eyes, last night was one of those nights. Guilt nestles itself into Courfeyrac’s chest, knowing that the added stress of his latest failed mission and the new kid will only make them deepen in color.  
     
     Marius stumbles from where he was trying to glance around the corner of a wall when Combeferre joins them at the bottom of the stairs. The mousey haired, bespectacled man stands a few inches taller than the other two boys. After studying Marius curiously for a moment, who moved nervously behind Courfeyrac, he turns his attention to Courfeyrac. “Did you get it?”  
     
     “Ran into trouble. Then found the stray. I didn’t think it was smart to push it that late.” Courfeyrac shakes his head and the man pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “How pissed is he going to be?”  
     
     The man shrugs. “It doesn’t help that she’s coming this Friday.”  
     
     “That still in the clear?”  
     
     “God I hope so. Feuilly is supposed to be checking up on it now.” He nods towards Marius who is uncomfortably staring at his shoes during their conversation. “Who is this?”  
     
     “Marius Gillenormand.” Courfeyrac introduces.  
     
     “Nice to meet you.” The man sticks out his hand. Marius is suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms are. “I’m Combeferre.”  
     
     “Combeferre is our general keeper. From our guide to our counselor to our very own Enjolras whisperer. He’s our better half, really. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns during your stay with Les Amis please contact him.” Courfeyrac said with a sweeping gesture to an amused Combeferre.  
     
     “Les Amis?”  
     
     “We’ll explain later.” Courfeyrac smiles kindly and Marius nods dumbly. “Is this a bad time for him to meet E?”  
     
     “Honestly? Yes,” states Combeferre. It’s more tired than bitter. “But he’s here now so might as well. There’s no telling what he’d do if he just accidentally stumbled upon a stranger in the house.”  
     
     Courfeyrac puts his arm around Marius’s shoulders and begins walking towards the daunting double doors. “Well then, let’s go meet the chief.”  
     
     Outside the grand door, Marius braves a question. “What is this place?”  
     
     “I’ll explain everything when I know he’s not going to kill you and bury us both in Jehan’s garden, okay?” Marius only swallows, Combeferre smiles. “Notice that I said kill you. He’d bury me alive.” Courfeyrac reassuringly pats him on the back.  
     
     They lead him to a room in the back where the walls are lined with floor to ceiling overcrowded, over stacked bookshelves. Books are well circulated among the educated wealthy. They have both the time and the money for such luxuries. However, books are possibly more dangerous than mass communication because they teach people to think and thinking is the final step before acting. Books are nearly unattainable, almost criminal.  
     
     Soft couches and chairs are strategically placed under the large windows for the natural lighting or near the fire places on either side of the room. Fluffy purple flowers in small glass vases are placed on each surface. Marius wanted to curl up in a chair and work his way through the bookshelves. He’d be happy if that's what he did for the rest of his life.  
     
     In the back corner, at the only table in the room that wasn’t a coffee or end table, a young man sits at a large desk. The surface is littered with crumpled papers, maps, coffee mugs and water glasses, stacks of books, and one tall red flower in a small vase. He’s staring intently at a piece of paper between his arms, his head heavy in his hands. His back is against the corner, a clear view out the two windows on either side of his desk and the door. Both windows are open. Every so often a welcomed breeze drifts in, fluttering the papers and his blond hair.  
     
     When the doors open, he glances up from his work. He stands, suddenly, and Marius feels himself start to sweat again. The man, like the others he has met, is not much older than himself. He is handsome and familiar. His jaw line is strong but his lips curve romantically. His hair falls into his face, just over his fierce blue eyes that bore into Marius with an expression that gave no glimpse of his opinion. The new man, the chief, is tall but not as tall as Combeferre and lean with dangerously capable muscles under his worn dark jeans, cuffed around his boots, and the t-shirt that rises enough to expose a sliver of skin just above his belt when he stands.  
     
     His clear blue gaze drifts over Marius with disinterest and lands on Courfeyrac. They shift from something Marius is keen to call hope but fade once spying Courfeyrac’s empty hands held up in front of his chest in an apologetic gesture.  
     
     “You didn’t get them.” It isn’t a question.  
     
     “Ran in to some trouble.”  
     
     The blond put his hands on his hips and nods his head in Marius’s direction but doesn’t drop Courfeyrac’s gaze. “This kind of trouble?”  
     
     “No. Well yes. But Javert kind of trouble first.”  
    
     The chief straightens up, asking “Was he there?”  
     
     “Thankfully not or else Marius would still be roaming the streets of Paris.” His brown eyes are still smiling but the boy’s face is sober. Marius is far from comforted by the tension in the room. He goes back to staring at his shoes.  
     
     “Javert?” The blond asks himself. He turns away from the three men, licking his bottom lip deep in thought. “How would he be prepared for that? Combeferre, he shouldn’t be prepared for that.”  
     
     “Perhaps we ran into him,” suggests the other man.  
     
     Enjolras looks at him, curiously before his grow wide. “Where’s Feuilly?”      
      
     “The two could be completely unrelated.”  
     
     “Are you willing to bet Cosette on that?”      
  
     Combeferre thinks over the honest question for a minute, then shakes his head almost casually. “No.”  
     
     The blond holds his gaze for several long seconds then storms past them all. The two dark haired men follow, leaving Marius behind. He doesn’t want to be left alone in the massive house but he also doesn’t want to trail after them like a real puppy. But the vastness of the room seems suddenly void of light and he figures the latter is the better of his two options. If they do become friends, if he did end up a part of the house, he’d think of a way to rid himself of the nickname then.  
     
     “Feuilly!” The blond calls. He kicks open a door revealing a neat closet of winter coats and boots. Growling under his breath, Marius hears, “This house is too fucking big.”  
     
     “Enjolras,” warns Combeferre.  
     
     Enjolras turns on his heel to come face to face with the other man. “Someone should have gone. I should have gone. At least then, I could step in. Distract him, draw him away from her so she can get here in one piece. I could-”  
     
     “There is nothing you can do-”  
     
     “There is always something you can do.” Enjolras pulls back offended.  
     
     “I mean there is nothing you can do about that _now_. You can’t go back in time and change plans to accommodate something that may or may not even be related. You know that.”  
     
     Enjolras takes a deep breath but the tense anger doesn’t leave his muscles. “Still, I have to do something. I want confirmation.”  
     
     “I think that is a great idea.”  
     
     “Where is Feuilly?”  
    
     Combeferre shrugs. The blond’s gaze moves to Courfeyrac, as if not knowing he’s only been home for five minutes. Courfeyrac raises his shoulders in a shrug, “The kitchen?”  
     
     He turns again, disappearing behind another door. Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a look that Marius can’t interpret before following. Marius is still trying to figure out where in the house they are when he tumbles into the kitchen, running in to Courfeyrac's back who had stopped. The boy gave Marius plenty of distance to avoid a collision but Marius was too distracted by the eight pair of eyes suddenly falling on him and the equally startling silence to see the man in front of him. He whispers an apology to Courfeyrac, taking in the room and the many, many faces.  
     
     “Feuilly, have you confirmed Cosette’s train departed on time?” Enjolras asks. He stands tall and once he speaks all eyes move from the stranger to him, all except Éponine’s. Her sharp and blatant glare sends the hair on the back of Marius’s neck up.  
     
     “Yes. She left at seven this morning.” The redheaded man answers. “There is only one transfer in Germany before she arrives in Paris.”  
     
     “Has anything changed? The track line or the passenger list? The conductor, perhaps?”  
     
     “Not that I could see.” Feuilly thinks for a moment before adding, “However, if someone didn’t want me to, I wouldn't be able to pick up the different details.”  
     
     Enjolras turns to Combeferre. His steely eyes lock on soft brown and he clenches his strong jaw. “I should have gone.”  
     
     With that, the blond turned on his heel and leaves in the direction they just came from. There is the sound of a door slamming that echoes an audible groan. Marius spots the man sitting next to Éponine rolling his eyes. The only other movement in the kitchen comes from Combeferre pinching the bridge of his nose and a slim boy with strawberry blond hair moving towards him. He places his hand on Combeferre’s arm, offering a kind smile, before moving to the fridge.  
     
     “Do you think it would help for him to eat something?” The smaller man asks.  
     
     “He needs to sleep.” A man sitting near Bossuet says with a look in Combeferre’s direction. Combeferre only raises his eyebrows in agreement.  
     
     “It’ll be better Friday.” The first man says, his head still in the fridge.  
     
     Under his breath, the dark haired man who rolled his eyes earlier mumbles, “If it all works out.”  
     
     “If not, at least it gives him something to focus on.” Courfeyrac offers. “Instead of just sitting around and waiting.”  
     
     “Patience isn’t exactly a virtue of his.” Éponine says, her eyes finally leaving Marius’s face. She glances around and lands on Combeferre. Studying him with narrowed eyes that makes Marius feel naked and he isn’t even her focus anymore, she teases out, “But you agree with him, Ferre. Don’t you?”  
     
     Combeferre glances up from counter. His brown eyes drift across the faces eagerly trying to see what Éponine saw. He raises a shoulder, saying, “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little concerned.”  
     
     The room grows quiet. He continues. “I think that, perhaps, Enjolras and Courfeyrac have a point. We are of no use to her here, heaven forbid something does go wrong. The only reason he didn’t go at first was because if he was recognized it would draw more eyes to her. Therefore defeating the number one priority of keeping her safe.”  
     
     “Les Amis! I knew I’ve heard that before.” Marius says suddenly. Once the sound reaches his ears, and those of the rest of the room as they all turn to stare at him, a red wave of blush washes over his entire body. He starts to sweat, his breathing quickens, and flashes of riots echo in his ears and photos of assassinations associated with the terrorist group _Les Amis de l’ABC_ dances across his vision. “Oh god.”  
     
     The dark haired man who rolled his eyes earlier busts out laughing. “I think he actually pissed himself.”  
     
     Turning to follow Enjolras, Combeferre points at Marius and tells Courfeyrac, “Take care of this.”  
     
     “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly gets a mission, Enjolras meets the puppy, and Marius surprise himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last slowww chapter. The next one is only kind of slow. I am much more excited about that one so I'll post it soon!

     Combeferre had disappeared, Feuilly and the slimmer man trailing after him with a tray full of bread and fruit. The rooms attention is now, much to Marius’s displeasure, one hundred percent focused on him. Éponine and the dark haired man sit on the counter in the corner, passing a bottle of wine between them. Bossuet, another man who wipes his nose with a tissue, and a gorgeous woman sit at the kitchen island. Next to Marius, leaning against the counter, is a large man, much bigger than the rest, with tattoos snaking across his muscles and an amused grin on his face. Under the deep tan, many faded scars dance along his skin.  
          
     “So,” Courfeyrac announces to the room. With one arm around Marius’s shoulders and the other gesturing towards the motley crew in front of them he continues. “Marius, meet Les Amis. Next to our dear sweet ‘Ponine, whom you’ve already had the pleasure to meet, is our resident drunkard, Grantaire. He knows where all the good wine is hidden so be his friend and he might share.”  
     
     The curly haired man raises the bottle in response.  
     
     “You know Bossuet. He has the most terrible luck so any harm he falls into is probably not your fault and any harm you fall into around him is usually not his fault. It’s an entirely different story with our friend, Bahorel, here.” Courfeyrac jerks his head to the big man who laughs heartily. “Next to Bossuet is his boyfriend, Joly and next to him is their girlfriend, Musichetta.”  
     
     “Wait. What?” Marius stutters, blushing. He doesn’t mean to say it just as he didn’t mean to shout out the name of the terrorist group in front of them. Wouldn’t his grandfather love the irony of this. The first night on his own and he’s trapped with the most feared group of people in the world. Marius, however, seems to be most surprised by how young they are.  
     
     “Cute, aren’t they?” Courfeyrac smiles before moving on seamlessly while Grantaire tells Éponine, _This is going to be fun_. “Joly is our doctor and we call Musichetta, Mama Musichetta.”  
     
     “Call me that and I will castrate you.”  
     
     “We don’t call her that. She will castrate you. You already met Combeferre and our dear leader, Enjolras. Feuilly was the ginger and the sweet little thing was Jehan. You have yet to meet Gavroche but once you do, check your pockets.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “Am I missing anything?” The gang shakes their heads. “Great. Amis, meet Marius Gillenormand.”  
     
     There are the various _hi_ ’s and _nice to meet you_ ’s from the crowd. No one seems overly enthusiastic but no one seems spectacle either. Marius chalks it up as a win.  
     
     “So, Marius, I’m not sure what you know about us. Any pictures you have seen are true but most of the stories... No, most of the stories are probably true as well. Any questions?”  
     
     His face flushes. Enjolras’s face has been plastered on the front page of the newspaper before, always above articles claiming the terrorist group has struck again. Usually some poor old politician or a trust fund was robbed. These people are thieves. They are murders. They are the worse kind of people he could have fallen into.Then why doesn’t he run out right now? He shakes his head and offers a tight smile.  
     
     “Please, ask away! You must know what you are signing up for, little puppy.” Grantaire says, stumbling off of his place on the counter. He narrows his eyes and leans towards Marius. “Are you prepared to die for the Cause? To give everything, for the Cause? Are you ready to lose a life you might have known for some poor bloke to read _A Tale Of Two Cities_? Are you willing to martyr yourself for a child to go to school? Tell me, Marius _Gillenormand_! Are you going to sacrifice everything with us for them?”  
     
     “Don’t worry about Grantaire. Ever since Cosette started to plan her trip here, he’s been missing out on some much needed attention.” Courfeyrac grins.  
     
     “Fuck you, Courf!” Grantaire pulls back defensively.  
     
     “If I didn’t fear for my life, I would let you! We all know you need it.” Grantaire brings the bottle of wine to his already tinted lips and sticks his middle finger out at Courfeyrac. He continues to drink from the bottle on his way out of the room, his hand never faltering in the gesture. “Well, I’m not sure any other interaction could sum Grantaire up for you.”  
     
     From around the corner Grantaire disappeared behind, Jehan pops his head out. He searches the room before his eyes land on Courfeyrac. “Hey, Courf? Combeferre asked to see you.”  
     
     “I’m on puppy watch.”  
     
     “Yeah, but I think this is important. They are upstairs in Enjolras’s room. I can watch him for you!”  
     
     “Alright, then. Marius, this is Jehan.”  
     
     “Hi.”  
     
     “Hi, darling! What do you think about a shower?”  
    
     He has to think over the question, not at all expecting it, before gushing, “I think nothing would sound better right now.”  
     
     The slim man slips his arm through Marius’s and the two follow Courfeyrac back to the stairs. The brunette takes the stairs two at a time but Jehan sets a smoother pace.  
     
     “We are really excited to have you here, Marius.” The man says, running hand through his hair.  
     
     “Really?” The disbelief is written across his forehead.  
     
     “Yes! We are always excited for new members.”  
     
     “I’m not a member.”  
     
     “Not yet. And if you don’t want to be, there is no harm in that. Perhaps just a friend, then.”  
     
     “You won’t kill me or bury me or something?”  
     
     “Not unless you have wronged the people. You don’t look old enough to have done that yet. Do you think that is all we do? If you aren’t with us, we are against you?” Marius doesn’t say anything. Jehan sighs, “Oh, well I don’t know why I expected anything less. Our public relations with the media aren't exactly civil. You are more than welcome to make up your own opinion of us and what we are fighting for, but give us the chance first. All we ask of you is to hear Enjolras out.”  
     
     “Enjolras didn’t look very interested in explaining things.”  
     
     “My dear, you must understand Enjolras fights so desperately for the people that he struggles to see the individual at times. That is why we are here.” Jehan smiles sweetly and for the first time since leaving his grandfather’s house Marius feels at ease. He lets this stranger show him the shower, give him a fluffy towel, and a promise to find clean clothes.  
     
     He starts the shower and leans close into the mirror, examining his own reflection while he waits for it to heat up. These kids are only three or four years older than him at most. Wealthy from stealing, damned for killing, encouraged for helping, feared for changing things. Maybe they aren’t horrible, heartless criminals. This single thought is what Marius held on to with all the hope he had in his twenty year old heart. For the people, they had claimed.  
     
     A conversation seeps through the walls and because it isn’t particularly hard to hear Marius doesn’t feel particularly guilty for listening to it. The first speaker is a calm, logical voice that, based off of what Marius had been told, must be Combeferre. The fiery, raised voice must be Enjolras. Their _chief_.  
     
     “You can’t go.” Combeferre is saying. The words are steady and firm.  
     
     “Of course I can.” Enjolras says. There is a rustling behind the wall but Marius couldn’t be sure what it is from.  
     
     “No, you can’t. You’ll be picked up before she even arrives. Now tell me, what good would that do?”  
     
     “She knows me. She trusts me.”  
     
     “That won’t protect you.” There is a pause before Combeferre reminds Enjolras with a tone that suggests an alternative plan, “She knows me, too.”  
     
     “If I can’t go, you can’t go.”  
     
     “Jesus, Enjolras don’t be so childish.”         

     “I’m not being childish!” Enjolras tries defensively.  
     
     “What about Éponine?” Courfeyrac offers. “She knows Cosette.”  
     
     Combeferre agrees before adding to the plan, “She and Grantaire can go- “      
      
     “No fucking way.” Enjolras decides.  
     
     “What?” Courfeyrac chokes out with a surprised laugh.  
     
     “Grantaire isn’t going.”  
     
     “Why not?” Combeferre asks. The man sounds as if he was dealing with a petulant child. Marius can picture him standing there with his hands on his hips.  
     
     “He’s not fucking going.”  
     
     “Enjolras, that was two months ago.”  
     
     “I don’t care if it was two years ago. He’s an idiot. He’s not going.”  
     
     “He’s not an idiot.”  
     
     “You’re right, he’s a dumb ass.”  
     
     “Enjolras-”  
     
     “No. He’s not going.”  
     
     Jehan’s knock on the door startles Marius into knocking the hand soap into the sink with a clatter.  
     
     “Sorry!” Jehan calls from behind the door. “I have the clothes for you, if you’d like.”  
    
     Marius regrettably opens the door feeling caught red handed in listening to the conversation. Steam escapes past Jehan, who doesn’t seem to notice Marius’s burning blush.  
     
     “I didn’t know what size you are but you look to be about Enjolras’s frame, although he’s a bit taller. The pants are his, hopefully they fit. If not you can just roll the bottoms. He likes them to be cuffed anyway, easier access.” Jehan says as if that explained something. “The shirt is his, or maybe Grantaire's. You can never really tell while doing laundry.”  
     
     “Thank you.”  
     
     “No problem. I’ll be right outside.”  
     
     “Thank you.” Marius says again. He is surprised to hear he means it with all his heart.

  
  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
   

  The jeans are dark and Marius has a feeling they are a matching pair of the ones Enjolras is wearing that day. At the risk of matching the infamous killer, his heart grows anxiously tight. He isn’t sure if he was embarrassed or afraid. The shirt is a simple blue tee, soft and worn from years of use. It smells of a wonderful mix of deodorant and something metallic, paint perhaps.  
     
     As promised Jehan is sitting with his back against the wall across from the bathroom door. He doesn’t look up from his notebook when Marius opens the door, so Marius coughs politely but it comes out awkwardly.  
     
     “Hello! Do you feel better?”  
     
     “Much, thank you.”  
     
     “The clothes look like they fit. Maybe a size too big but that should change once you build some muscle.” Marius feels he should be insulted at the words but the tone doesn’t match so he only shrugs. The man points to the slacks, button down, and tie in Marius’s hands. “Would you like your clothes washed?”  
     
     “I don’t think I’ll wear them again.” His answer surprises himself but doesn’t seem to surprise Jehan who smiles in a suspiciously intuitive way. He takes the clothes from Marius and tosses them in a trashcan just inside a bedroom before leading him downstairs the same way they walked up, arms linked. They go through the kitchen and to a living room full of couches, chairs, and, to Marius’s disbelief and excitement, more books. The room is as crowded as the kitchen had been but not uncomfortably. It looks as if everyone simply migrated into the living room.  
     
     The room has a youthful air with worn, comfortable couches and chairs all around a round coffee table with various drinks, half eaten food, and books scattered across the surface. The large windows are all open and a sweet smelling summer breeze drifts in. From those windows and the open french doors, the backyard is visible. Dozens of chairs are scattered across the stone patio and a garden is flourishing despite the heat.  
     
     On one of the couches Éponine was lying in a black tank top, dark against the bright blue bra peaking out under the low sides. Marius blushes and quickly averts his eyes. Éponine smirks. Her brown legs are thrown over Grantaire’s lap as the man draws intricate patterns on her skin with a green marker. Grantaire sees her smirk and Marius’s blush and pinches her leg. She kicks at his hand. Marius catches the exchange but doesn’t know what to think about it so he ignores it.  
     
     Combeferre, Enjolras, and Feuilly are standing just outside the french doors discussing something. The blond is speaking animatedly as the redheaded man listens intently and Combeferre watches with an amused smile.  
     
     Joly is sitting on one of the couches with his girlfriend and Bossuet reading a book. There is a book in Joly’s lap but he’s staring at Enjolras with narrowed eyes. In one of the arm chairs, Bahorel nurses a cold beer. He is pulling it up in the middle of a sip when a boy creeps in to the room and behind him, popping the end of the beer bottle up. The big man spills the drink down his shirt, jumping up, startled and cursing. The boy throws his head back and laughs.  
     
     “Fucking brat!” bellows the man, giving chase. The boy runs past Enjolras and the other two, forcing them to take a step apart to let Bahorel through. Enjolras doesn’t miss a word.  
     
     A chuckle goes through the room when Courfeyrac appears, taking both Bahorel’s abandoned seat and his beer. Jehan lets go of Marius to disappear into the kitchen.  
     
     “Marius! Have a seat.” Courfeyrac says, pointing to the matching chair next to him. He’s relaxed, the fear and anticipation no longer weighing down his bones after doing a bit of research on the new kid. “I see you found some new clothes.”  
     
     “I stole some from Enjolras.” Jehan explains from the kitchen looking mighty proud of himself. “I think he looks lovely.”  
     
     “They don’t really fit him.” Grantaire says without looking up from his spiraling art across Éponine’s legs.  
     
     “They are a bit big but seeing as no mortal man can do the clothes of your golden god justice I think he looks great.” Jehan comes back from the kitchen with a handful of beers. The comment earns a glare from Grantaire. “Here you go, Marius.” The smaller man hands him a beer, then the others. Grantaire holds out his hand for his own but Jehan shakes his head. “No, you are not playing nicely. Just because you are grumpy doesn’t mean it is fair to bring everyone else down.”  
     
     Grantaire breathes out a dramatic sigh accompanied by an eye roll. “Marius, I am sorry I was grumpy. I didn’t mean to bring you down. You look fine.” Jehan narrows his eyes. In a dry sarcastic tone, Grantaire continues. “You look good. A god damn sex fiend. In fact, you look so good I need to excuse myself to run to the bathroom real quick in order to take care of the situation your handsomeness is currently causing in my pants.”  
     
     “That was lovely, Grantaire.” Jehan hands him the beer with a content smile before sitting on the coffee table. Marius can’t look the man in the eyes. “Is E going?”  
     
     “Feuilly,” answers Courfeyrac. “Thank god for Combeferre.”  
     
     Everyone around the room nods in agreement. The three outside leave, walking around the house as opposed to going through it. Bahorel’s screams and Gavroche’s taunts can be heard from the chair Marius sits at. The lack of conversation driven from the heat and the distraction of Cosette leaves only a low hum around the room. Marius doesn’t know what to do but he knows he doesn’t want to break the easy, relaxed vibe. However, when Courfeyrac starts to casually talk with Marius he is more than grateful for the chatter. _Maybe they’ll be friends._ Marius tries to keep his hope down but he’s never been very good at that.  
     
     Sometime later Combeferre and Enjolras return. As soon as they do, Joly hops up from his couch and runs to the kitchen with methodically frantic steps. Courfeyrac leans his head back and looking upside down at Enjolras he asks, “Do you feel better now, knowing she’s in the very capable hands of our brave Feuilly?”  
     
     “Javert has proven very capable as well, so no, not particularly.” The blond replies, sounding concerned but not nearly as intense.  
     
     “That seedy twat is no match for Feuilly.” Bahorel announces, appearing in the door frame sweaty and out of breath. “But next time I vote we send Gavroche. That little brat is shiftier than a fucking squirrel.”  
     
     “Did he climb a tree again?” Éponine asks with a small but genuine amount of sympathy.  
     
     “He fucking scampered up the tree. Scampered!”  
     
     Bossuet chuckles. “He’ll keep doing it if you keep chasing him.”  
     
     “Next time I’m going to catch him.”  
     
     “Only if you learn how to _scamper_ , too.” Courfeyrac states.  
     
     Bahorel decides to ignore his doubtful friends, knowing full well they are right. Instead, he asks, “Hey Enjolras, what do you think of our new puppy?” He knows no subtly.  
     
     “Puppy?”  
    
     Grantaire laughs as he face believes for a minute they had acquired an actual canine. “Yeah, Apollo. We named him Marius.”  
     
     “Marius?”  
     
     The stranger stands up from his chair and awkwardly turns to Enjolras. Subconsciously he pulls at the shirt collar. Sticking out his hand, he introduces himself. “Hi, Monsieur.” Oh, god why did he just call him Monsieur? Marius starts to sweat and Courfeyrac’s suppressed smile does not make him feel better. “Um, I’m Marius.”  
     
     “Hello Marius,” Enjolras says pleasantly enough. His smile is disarming. “Courfeyrac tells me you ran away?” Marius nods but doesn’t offer any more details. Enjolras respects this with a reassuring nod of his own and doesn’t push for answers. “I assume you've heard about us?  
     
     “Some.”  
     
     “Do you understand our general principles?”  
     
     “For the people.” Marius repeats what he has heard Courfeyrac claim. “Vive la Republique, right?”  
     
     “But does he understand _how_?” Grantaire asks without looking up from Éponine’s leg. Enjolras shoots him a look before turning to Marius for his answer.

    When Marius only blushes and searches the floor for any advice, Enjolras elaborates. “Our actions may seem unsavory-”  
     
     “Murderous. Murderous is the word you are looking for.”  
     
     “Grantaire, that’s enough.”  
     
     “I’m only trying to be honest, Apollo. Isn’t that what you ask of our dear politicians?” Grantaire finally looks up from his art project with a cocky grin. “I am simply acting upon our _principles_.”  
     
     “Our actions, our _principles_ , demand attention. We fight for progress. To bring the power back to the people. No man should fear their government. Their government should fear the man.”  
     
     Marius watches as Enjolras continues to explain, each word laced with passion Marius had never heard before. When the man finally breaks for a breath, excitement flushed in his brilliant blue eyes, Marius’s mouth speaks before he gives it permission. “You are waging war on the most powerful group of people.”  
     
     “No, my friend.” Enjolras says, putting his hand on Marius’s arm and smiling a dangerous smile. “Only the wealthiest. We are calling to arms the most powerful class.”  
     
     The room, with the exception of Grantaire, nods in agreement. Combeferre keeps his hands on his hips but from the couch, Marius feels Grantaire’s eyes bore into him. The man looks on with doubtful, narrowed blue eyes staring at the point where Enjolras’s hand connected with Marius’s arm. A call from the kitchen pulls Enjolras away and Marius is left standing with the fire to fight, Grantaire still staring at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, that "no man should fear their government, their government should fear the man" is a quote from Thomas Jefferson. It always makes me think of Enjolras. Just thought I should cite that.
> 
> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire isn't very good with sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple different breaks in this chapter, hopefully it's not super awkward!

     Grantaire hasn’t had enough to drink. He knows this because his sketchpad is exactly where he left it. His pens are neatly tucked away and he’s still wearing his shirt. When Grantaire has had enough to drink, he can’t find his sketchpad because he doesn’t want to draw. When Grantaire has had enough to drink, he draws terrible, bloody things with faces that look too familiar and doesn’t stop drinking because they’ll haunt his dreams for weeks to come if he puts down the bottle. So, he hides his sketchpad and throws his pens around the house. He doesn’t have an excuse for taking off his shirt. Perhaps that’s just hopeful thinking. If he walks past Enjolras enough times with his shirt off maybe Enjolras will take his pants off.  
     
     Today, he hasn’t had enough to drink and with the addition of _Marius_ he knows he won’t. He hates when they pick up strays. He won’t drink enough for far too long with the stray here. Just in case. Despite knowing the kid is harmless, seeing nothing but a dreamy disposition and a little lost soul, Grantaire can’t allow himself to be too distracting. Just in case Enjolras needs to act, he can’t be a liability. He won’t be the reason things fall apart. He won’t be the one it all falls down around them all. However. This doesn’t mean he won’t be petulant. Tonight, he has every intention of being annoying. He misses Enjolras so he’s mad at him and he’s very good at making Enjolras as mad as he is.  
     
     “Don’t you think the timing is strange?” He asks, leaning in close to the blond, knowing that his warm breath will rustle the long curl that’s bent over his ear. The chatter at the table is loud enough for him to speak normally especially because sitting next to him is Éponine and on the other side of Enjolras is Combeferre. People who, should Grantaire actually be concerned, would be consulted anyway. If Grantaire is being honest with his ranking of Enjolras’ respect, they probably already have been consulted.  
     
     “No.” The blond says flatly.  
     
     “Come on, Apollo. The pup shows up right when Courf’s mission fails, Javert catches up, and Cosette is about to arrive? You frequently lose sleep over less.”  
     
     The blonde mimics his position, hissing through a clenched jaw. “How do you know Javert’s men showed up? Were you listening in?”  
     
     “What happened to freedom of information?”  
     
     They glare at each other for a minute, Enjolras’s stare cold and Grantaire’s cocky. Enjolras backs off first. He sinks in his chair but only for show because he’s still curved towards Grantaire so he can speak without drawing attention to themselves. “We pick up strays all the time. What makes this one different?”  
     
     “He’s a _Gillenormand_.”      
  
     “Courf checked him out. His dad was some low level officer that just died. He learned the truth and pulled away.” Enjolras moves his fork around the plate, feigning casualness. From under those stupid fucking eyelashes, he glares at Grantaire but his warning is missing it’s usual bite. The slight hint of concern makes Grantaire feel guilty, but then he reminds himself how cold his bed gets.  
     
     “Just because thats what you would do doesn’t mean that’s what he did.” Enjolras doesn’t say anything but his gaze studies the faces around the dinner table, lingering on Marius’ freckled smile and Bahorel’s throat thrown back in a laugh next to him. It would be easy for Marius to reach out and slit it. He feels the weight of the blade in his hand, the way the handle would catch ever so slightly at first before he flicks his wrist. Enjolras blinks away the blood. “It doesn’t mean he can’t be another Le Cabuc.”  
     
     With enough force to bring the table to silence, Enjolras stands up and storms out of the room. A minute later Combeferre follows and Éponine leans in to hiss something to Grantaire, whose only response is swallowing down his wine. He’s not drunk enough and one more glass won’t kill his ability to function with clothes on but it may help him lose the cold feeling of immediate regret.

  
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          After the hearty dinner and several drinks, Courfeyrac leads Marius upstairs. He’s feeling good. Warm and cheery. Of course, this could be from the wine but he’d like to think it’s from the loud stories, boisterous laughter, and crazy dinner table. He’d like to think he could keep this kind of light and woolly feeling. Caught up in his sudden happiness, Marius trips over his feet as they turn a corner and come upon the sight, just inside the doorframe of a bedroom, of the intense Enjolras holding the dark haired man up against the wall. It takes a minute for him to see that the blond is not, in fact, killing Grantaire. Not with the other man’s legs wrapped around his waist and his hands tangled in the blond curls. Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to notice.  
          
     The blond is biting down Grantaire’s neck, the other mans head thrown back against the wall. Blue eyes clouded with lust and bright with excitement find Marius staring. A hot flush spreads quickly up Marius’s neck and cheeks. The man grins, shoots Marius a wink before tugging on the blond curls to bring Enjolras’s face off of his neck. The dark haired man brushes their noses together in a strange, intimate kind of way before attacking his lips with vicious desire. Courfeyrac can’t seem open the door fast enough and Marius suddenly thinks he is doing it on purpose. It is confirmed when the Irishman faces him with a wickedly knowing grin.  
     
     “If you stare long enough they might ask you to join. However, know that they've already said no to both Jehan  _and_ me so don't get your hopes, or anything else, up.” Courfeyrac feigns offense and adds a wink when appropriate. Marius’ color darkens two more shades.  
     
     “I thought they hated each other.”  
     
     “They do hate each other.” Marius blinks. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Oh my friend, you have so much to learn. They hate each other but they also love each other. Neither one can't function without the other. It's what you’d would call an unhealthy relationship.”  
     
     “Why don't they just break up?”  
     
     “God forbid that ever happens!” Marius takes a step back at the man’s sudden outburst but he doesn’t seem to notice because he continues in a hushed whisper. “We don’t say things like that around here. Grantaire would most likely drink himself into a coma and Enjolras would work himself to death and we’d all be left to pick up the many, many messy pieces. In the end, they are better for each other than not. Trust me. We simply don’t question it.”

  
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          Enjolras gets lost in Grantaire's smell, leaving teeth marks across his jaw and down his neck. He inhales, focusing on the way Grantaire’s chest heaves against him. It’s better than blinking the blood away, better than rubbing his eyes, a hot shower, or a long run. It’s better than dwelling over possible out comes and worse case scenarios, planning and adjusting and adapting to something that may or may not happen. This is the only thing he wants right now. Grantaire is the only thing he wants because Grantaire makes it all go away.

     Roughly his head is jerked back by fingers holding his hair just a little too tight for it to be comfortable and just tight enough for it to be exciting. Grantaire stares at him for a second, flushed and beautiful before diving in for a long, hungry kiss. He pulls away first, looking to the side with his head thrown back against the wall and Enjolras goes back to marking his neck.  
     
     “You’re always welcome, Courf!” shouts Grantaire. His muscles move under Enjolras's teeth. The blond pulls back and follows (his boyfriend? his lover?) his Grantaire’s gaze across the hall. Courfeyrac is looking completely amused and the new kid looks as if he has forgotten to breath as his face shifts to another shade of purple. Enjolras growls deep in his throat, Grantaire feels it in his pants. He shuts the door without losing his hold on Grantaire. On his Grantaire.  
     
     It's hours later when Enjolras speaks again, outside of the string of profanities he yelled when coming unraveled by Grantaire. They never bothered to turn the lights on and therefore stayed in each others arms once they were done, shadowed in the darkness. Grantaire is drifting pleasantly in and out of sleep while Enjolras thinks. Had Grantaire not come so hard an hour before he would have been more aware of his boyfriend’s worries. But it had been nearly two long weeks since he was last allowed to fuck Enjolras like that and Enjolras is almost always worried about one thing or another. Except when he is in Grantaire’s hands and withering, begging, and fucking _whimpering_ the way only Grantaire can make him. There are a few tricks in their years together that he has learned that Enjolras melts for.  
     
     “Do you think he could be?” Enjolras asks in the darkness.  
     
     “I’m going to need more words than that if you expect a real answer.”  
     
     Enjolras lifts his head off of Grantaire’s shoulder. The other man doesn’t open his eyes but he can feel Enjolras’ warm breath on his skin. “Could we possibly have another Le Cabuc issue on our hands?”  
     
     “With Marius? No, he’s harmless.”  
     
     “We can’t be sure.” Enjolras says, pressing his lips into Grantaire’s shoulder. When he lifts his head again, the rest of his body follows.  
     
     “No,” whines Grantaire, trying to pull Enjolras back into his embrace. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”  
     
     “No, you were right. We need to make sure.” Enjolras pulls on a pair of boxers.  
     
     “I'm never right. You're right. The kid would probably piss himself at the prospect of shooting someone. At shooting a fly! Please, just come back to bed.”  
     
     “I will, I’ll be right back.”  
     
     “Promise?”  
     
     The bed shifts as Enjolras leans over to kiss him one more time. “Promise.”  
     
     The door closes and Grantaire listens to the soft pads of his steps disappear down the hall, cursing himself for being so petty at dinner. Fuck, he has been petty for years. He considers following him, apologizing or pleading, but that is a conversation meant for Combeferre’s ears or else Enjolras would have stayed and talked to him. He isn’t jealous of their relationship, no one could be, he was just disappointed at having to share Enjolras with both Combeferre and France.  
     
     There is kind love laced in each word from Combeferre and heavy trust in each response from Enjolras. Their relationship goes beyond love, beyond family. There is a codependent need for each other. Jehan says it’s fate, they need one to complete the other. Courfeyrac says it’s what they have been through together. Bossuet says it’s brotherly. Grantaire knows it’s all of this and more. Chemistry, destiny, love. It doesn’t matter, there is nothing else like it and Grantaire knows he doesn’t come close.  
     
     There is no point in lying that Grantaire has had his insecurities. The thought that if Combeferre was gay then he and Enjolras would definitely be together. They aren’t a married couple, though. Platonic soul-mates, sure, but not a couple. Combeferre would be the fatherly figure around the house but Enjolras is no where near a parental guide. Cosette picks up the other half for Combeferre when she’s around, part that Courfeyrac occasionally acts. She is the embodiment of a motherly figure. Enjolras is the kid who is too smart for his own good, leading all the others into trouble with his clever words, his charming smile, and revolutionary ideas.  
     
     Each member of their strange little family has their place. Personalities somehow molding and blending into the house to create a powerful force. A force strong enough to cause fear among the rich and powerful and corrupt. A force the king is starting to take note of, as Enjolras so proudly preaches.  
     
     Grantaire gives a moment to be grateful that Combeferre is as straight as they come and lets the lingering fear that he still isn’t entirely sure they haven’t at least fucked pass. He considers going down the hall to the master bedroom that Éponine claimed long ago to snuggle with her for the night. His bed feels empty without Enjolras and he doesn’t remember what he usually does with his arms when he sleeps alone and sober. Well, mostly sober. He isn’t a tactile octopus like Enjolras but he likes to feel cuddled. Enjolras usually does the cuddling.  
     
     He had told Bahorel and Jehan this before after too many drinks and a particularly unpleasant argument with Enjolras in an immature way to get back at him but they didn’t seem too surprised. Grantaire knew Enjolras liked the subtle little touches, a gentle pat on the hand in understanding or a playful hip bump letting him know it was all in jest but he was never excessively expressive outside of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, or Cosette. At least, he didn’t think he was. It didn’t make him jealous that Bahorel and Jehan realized it before he did. Not at all. It didn’t keep him up or help empty his glass in any way.  
     
     Éponine’s room seems too far away and the dark hallway much colder than his empty bed so he stays there. It helps that Enjolras promised.   

  
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          “What is this?” Enjolras asks, eyeing the cup Combeferre passed to him. His best friend goes back to pour his own cup before sitting himself on the counter to face Enjolras, who sits at the kitchen island.  
     
     “Some of Jehan’s tea. I picked at random so we’ll be surprised.”  
     
     “I wanted coffee.”  
     
     “You know, Joly did the math yesterday and said the amount of caffeine you have in one day is enough to keep a grown elephant awake for a week.”  
     
     “So?”  
     
     “So it's a miracle you sleep as much as you do.” Enjolras only blinks. Combeferre sighs and leans against the cabinets. “Just try it. You never know what might help. If you absolutely can't get it down, then I’ll make us something stronger.”  
     
     They are quiet. Enjolras takes a sip of the tea, then makes a face. He thinks for a minute before looking up at Combeferre with the closest thing to sheepishness he's willing to convey. Only to Combeferre, because he deserves it and so much more for all he puts up with and Enjolras knows he’s been difficult lately. “Joly didn't really do the math, right?”  
     
     “Probably not but I wouldn't put it past him.” Combeferre smiles, letting Enjolras duck his head and chuckle before continuing in a slightly more even tone. He keeps his eyebrow raised humorously, though, to ensure Enjolras doesn’t beat himself up. “He's worried about you, you know? We all are. Your habits aren’t particularly healthy.”  
     
     Enjolras doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t have to look up for Combeferre to see the guilt in his sagging shoulders and the pensive examination of the counter top. The gaze in his blue eyes is so drastically different than when alight with passion or blazing with ferocity yet it is no less intense. Enjolras feels at one speed or not at all and the stress of the pass few weeks is wearing him down. Combeferre decided long ago that look doesn’t belong on his best friends face.  
     
     “What is Cosette going to say when she gets here and sees you looking as rough as you do?” Enjolras looks up sharply, most likely to defend himself, but decides against whatever he planned on saying at the sight of Combeferre’s curved smirk. “You know she is going to be pissed. At me, more than you.” Sensing his friend loosen up, Combeferre continues. “It’s true. You are going to get good food, put to bed at a reasonable hour, and probably a haircut. But me? I am going to get a lecture and finger pointing and lots of disappointed head shakes.” Enjolras chuckles, undoubtedly picturing the small blond girl telling Combeferre off. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You believe that I shove food down your throat and force you to drink god awful tea because I love you but you have been sorely mistaken.”  
     
     “Oh yeah?”  
     
     “Yes! My friend, it is as simple as self-preservation.”  
     
     Enjolras laughs heartily. It is soft and leaves his mouth sounding very young. He drops his gaze, thinking for a moment without letting the smile fade completely. “Grantaire thinks I’m too trusting.”  
     
     “Did he say as much?”  
     
     “He didn’t have to.”  
     
     “Grantaire is cynical by nature.” Combeferre says neutrally. “It leaves him to expect the worst.”  
     
     “Some would call that being cautious.”  
     
     “Is this about the puppy?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “What?”  
     
     “Nothing. I just didn’t expect you to pick up on the nickname.”  
     
     “It seems oddly fitting, does it not?”  
     
     “He certainly follows Courfeyrac around like one.” Combeferre lets out a small laugh but waits patiently for Enjolras to expand on his anxiety. “R asked me how I don’t know he was another Le Cabuc.” 

     Combeferre shifts. “Oh, well now Le Cabuc was a different breed of animal all together. There was no predicting what he was going to do nor what he later forced you to do.”  
     
     “I don’t feel guilty for killing him.”  
     
     “As you shouldn’t.” Enjolras studies his best friends face for a minute, searching for any falter in his belief. Finding none, as he knew he would, he softens his gaze. “Courfeyrac checked him out-”  
     
     “Courfeyrac checked out Le Cabuc.”  
     
     “There was nothing indicating-”      
      
     “Then how do we know for sure?” Enjolras leans forward on his elbows with far too much energy for three o’clock in the morning. “We have strays coming and going through here all the time. What makes this one different than Le Cabuc outside of opportunity? What makes us sure he’s not working for Javert? They recruit as young as we do now.”  
     
     “There is no telling for sure. We must go off of faith in Courfeyrac’s assessment and our own gut feelings,” says Combeferre diplomatically. “If something is telling you to be cautious then listen to it and share but beware of Grantaire’s influence.”  
     
     “What if Grantaire’s influence is his own instinct? He’s been right before.”  
     
     “It could be. However I feel he would be more vocal about it. Grantaire is not one to bite his tongue. Now, consider the other side of the coin that he might just be fighting for some attention.”  
     
     “Attention?” Enjolras tilts his head skeptically.  
     
     “You haven’t exactly been approachable these days.”  
     
     “We just-”  
     
     “I don’t want to hear about that.” Combeferre holds up his hand. The blond obeys politely and bites his lip against the growing smile. Surely Combeferre had seen the bruises on his neck and chest. Perhaps he should have considered pulling on a shirt but it’s only Combeferre. “That’s not what I mean.”  
     
     Enjolras scratches his head, searching for what Combeferre is reaching at. Failing, and judging by the quirk of his eyebrow Combeferre predicted that, Enjolras prompts, “You mean...”  
     
     “How many nights have you fallen asleep in your office this week?” When Enjolras straightens in his chair and doesn’t answer Combeferre sighs. “Your relationship is none of my business, but he does have a tendency to try to rile you up when he’s pissed. Don’t let your guard down around the pup but do take what Grantaire said with a grain of salt, a bottle of wine, and an empty bed.”  
     
     Nodding his understanding, Enjolras stands up. Combeferre jumps off the counter and collects their still full cups. “Thanks, Ferre. This taste like piss water by the way. I don’t know how Jehan drinks it.”  
     
     “Well it’s literally liquified flowers, so it makes sense.”  
     
     Enjolras laughs. The sound is short and echoes in the empty kitchen. He kisses Combeferre on the cheek, thanking him again, and disappears upstairs. As he always does, he leaves Combeferre smiling and shaking his head with a tinge of worry nestled in his chest.    

  
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          Grantaire had fallen asleep. He doesn’t wake up when Enjolras opens the door and he doesn’t wake up when Enjolras climbs onto the bed. He does, however, begin to stir when Enjolras lays on top of him and starts to press soft kisses over the bruises from earlier in the night. Humming contently in the back of his throat, the artist peaks open one eye to see the top of the blond head and a flash of a small smile. He closes his eyes and turns his head back into the pillow, gently running his fingers through the blond curls that are busy leaving a trail across his chest.  
     
     “I know I haven’t been good lately.” Enjolras mumbles against his skin in between gentle kisses.  
     
     “I’m not sure what you are talking about. You were great last night. Tonight? Last night.” His voice is thick with sleep. A goofy smile plays on his lips at the sweaty memory.  
     
     “No, not like that. I mean in general. I haven’t been good. You deserve better.” Grantaire opens his eyes. He has to press his chin to his chest in order to see Enjolras’s face. “You always deserve better.” The blond isn’t looking at him, his own chin resting on the part of Grantaire’s chest where his ribs stopped and his stomach starts. His features are shadowed in the dark but the blue eyes roaming over Grantaire’s pale skin are hinted with guilt. Once they connect with Grantaire’s, he demands, “Never forget that.”  
     
     “Is this an apology?” Enjolras doesn’t apologize. He didn’t start now and Grantaire isn’t surprised. He rarely admits when he is wrong but he isn’t really wrong this time around either. His attention is pulled to a worthy distraction. Cosette’s safety is vital. That is understandable, respectable even. Just because Grantaire is childish in his vices doesn’t mean Enjolras deserves to feel guilty about it.  
     
     In lieu of an apology Enjolras kisses him softly and promises to be better. Those words are more than enough for Grantaire. They fall asleep like that, Enjolras lying on Grantaire. Grantaire always makes it go away and Enjolras always keeps his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if that was weird to read and I'll work on it!
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> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
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> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
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> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The golden trio make plans for new plans and Javert has a good anniversary.

     Several hours later when the sun starts to creep up and break through their thin curtains, Grantaire feels the desperate need to pee. Even amidst his blurry dream of trees, a train, and Cosette’s face but Enjolras’s words, he had needed to pee. There wasn’t a bathroom anywhere in the forest he was wandering around and once he woke up the feeling of desperation lingered in his bladder. Enjolras is sleeping soundly on his stomach, his bare shoulders golden in the early morning sun. His warm breath leaves the small feeling of condensation on Grantaire’s skin. The hitch in between inhales and exhales matches with the rise and fall of his back. Grantaire brushes a finger over the soft tattoo on the back of his right shoulder, tracing the watercolored French flag where the black outlines are missing. The blue, white, and red bleed right into his skin.  
     
     As cliched as it sounds, he knows he’d stay there forever. Enjolras in his arms, his friends safe in the house, Javert far away. He’d stay like that forever but he needed to pee so he goes to work trying to extract himself from his boyfriend’s arms. Enjolras makes a sad whining noise and moves his arms from where they were tangled in the sheets to wrap them around Grantaire’s waist in response to him trying to slip out. Always one to indulge, Grantaire lets Enjolras keep him there. He cards his fingers through the long blond hair, focusing on untangling the curls. He hums Mozart and stares at the soft fluttering eyelashes. He focuses on Enjolras in his arms, happy and safe, until it becomes necessary for him to leave.  
     
     “I have to pee,” Grantaire explains apologetically, trying to replace himself with a pillow. Enjolras wraps his arms around the pillow and falls back asleep on top of it with his face pressed against the mattress and his back arched in the air, his knees pulled under him. If Grantaire didn’t have to pee so bad his bladder hurt he would sit there and memorize the childlike position the face of the feared Les Amis de l’ABC, the golden boy for social justice, the robin hood for the oppressed giving the people a voice instead of money just curled into. He wished he had a camera on him.  
     
     But he had to pee.  
     
     After the trip to the bathroom, Enjolras had claimed the pillow and most of the bed in his desperate cuddling position so Grantaire heads downstairs after a series of soft kisses to Enjolras’ exposed cheek that left the blond humming contently. Everyone but their exhausted leader is mulling around the kitchen. It is loud, busy, and just the same as every morning - with the new addition of Marius Gillenormand. The freckled kid sits at the small circular table near the open window with a shirtless Courfeyrac. The warm breeze shifts in and runs through their fluffy bed head of hair. Marius blinks, takes a big whiff of whatever sweet smell attached itself to the air and looks out the window in search of the source.  
     
     “Lilacs.” Jehan supplies from his perch on the edge of the kitchen island. He is the only one who looks like he showered, outside of Combeferre who always looks like he’s just showered.  
     
     Grantaire weaves his way through the bodies to said Combeferre. He is standing with his back to the practiced chaos of the kitchen but surely he has a handle on Bossuet passing out freshly made coffee, Joly buttering the toast, and Bahorel’s frequent attempts to steal bacon and sausage from the pans, all the while stirring the eggs. Grantaire accepts a warm coffee from Bossuet, pats Joly encouragingly on the arm as he nods placidly to Gavroche’s authoritative reminders on how everyone likes their toast, despite the fact that he simply does every piece the same nearly every morning, before planting a kiss on Combeferre’s cheek and ruffling his hair.  
     
     Although surprised, Combeferre doesn’t flinch. Most of his friends are overtly tactile, but Grantaire is rarely this affectionate so he raises a curious eyebrow.  
     
     “You are too good to him.” Grantaire says in way of a broad explantation. “You are too good to all of us.”  
     
     Combeferre laughs the statement off modestly, shakes his head, and goes back to stirring the scrambled eggs. At the kitchen island Éponine is telling Gavroche to cut the crap with Joly while Musichetta eggs the boy on. Grantaire joins the small table with a friendly smile and a slap on new kid’s thin back with a, “How the fuck did you all sleep last night?”  
     
     Marius replies simply and politely but it doesn’t seem to be enough for the curly haired man and Grantaire continues to ask questions. Most seem sincere enough, as far as Marius can tell, and he is torn between mistrusting the drunk cynic from last night or befriending the charming kid that he is this morning.  
     
     “See,” Courfeyrac interrupts with a cheeky grin. “What did I tell you, Marius? He just needed a good fuck.”  
    
     Marius blushes and much to his embarrassment he might have even giggled a little. For Grantaire’s part, he smirks and adds, “You have no idea,” with a wink in Marius’s direction.  
   
     With that, they fall into a comfortable silence watching the scene of arms and plates and near collisions in the kitchen. Bahorel curses suddenly, pulling his hand out of a frying pan and sucking on two singed fingers. Combeferre sighs and shakes his head, saying, “I don’t feel bad for you. This happens every morning.”  
     
     There is a snarky, “Watch out, it’s hot,” from Gavroche and a worried examination from Joly. The distraction provides the perfect cover for Enjolras to slip in, steal a coffee from Bossuet, and sneak out. Combeferre watches him disappear with narrow eyes. It’s unusual for the man. Most mornings he’ll stay to pick at the cut up fruit Jehan is always preparing and he’ll chat with Gavroche while holding Grantaires’ hand. In fact, breakfast is one of the few meals he remembers to eat, especially after what Combeferre can only assume was a good night with Grantaire. The odd behavior from the dark haired man earlier and the wink Enjolras flashed Grantaire in the split second eye contact he made before running off is enough evidence to support his theory. Something’s off.  
     
     Once the eggs are cooked and the bowls of food filled, Combeferre makes a hefty plate for his friend and leaves the busy kitchen to investigate. He’s not hard to find. Enjolras is making a good deal of noise in the meeting room, bustling around the scattered chairs, collecting discarded books. His blond hair falls in front of his face and his forgotten coffee grows cold.  
     
     “Good morning,” Combeferre says. It half startles the other boy.  
     
     “Hey Ferre.” His cleaning doesn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t realize how messy this place is.”  
     
     “It’s no worse than it usually is but with the likes of us, I guess normal is a relative term.” It earns him a brief smile from Enjolras. “Why don’t we eat first? You might be able to recruit some of the others but I’d say your best chance is when they are distracted by warm food.”  
     
     “I just wanted to tidy up before Cosette gets here.”  
     
     “She doesn’t get here for another two days. There’s no need rush it.”  
     
     “Today’s Thursday.”  
     
     “Wednesday.”      
  
     Enjolras thinks for a minute. When he speaks again Combeferre is surprised but unaffected by the new topic. “Should we worry about the kid?”  
     
     “Are you still concerned?”  
     
     “No. Yes. Should I be?” Enjolras questions. Combeferre raises a shoulder in complete indifference. The lack of confirmation or denial bothers the blond. He drops his collection of leather bound novels on the nearest table. They land with a soft clatter. With a frustrated breath and hands anxiously pushing his hair off his face, Enjolras falls into a chair. “That’s a bad answer.”  
     
     Combeferre chuckles as he moves behind Enjolras. He does his best to pull the blond curls together and keep them back with a string. He doesn’t have Jehans’ nimble hands but it clears Enjolras' face of the bothersome hair.  
     
     “Thank you,” says Enjolras as he watches Combeferre stack the books in one corner of the table. Once there are two neat piles, he places the plate in between his friend’s elbows and sits down across from him.  
     
     “No answer isn’t always the wrong answer.”  
     
     “No, not always but it’s still a pretty shitty answer right now.” He drops his hands to the table dramatically, fixing Combeferre with a glare. “Just tell me, do you trust the kid or should we move him out? Cosette gets here tomorrow. No, Friday. She gets here Friday and I’d really like to have a better handle on the situation by then.”  
     
     “I can’t just tell you, though I wish I could.” Combeferre says. Enjolras sighs, rolling his head back in a long stretch of his neck. It’s an attempt to release the ever growing, always present weight on his shoulders and lacks any and all of the dramatic flair his first action had. It increases Combeferre’s own stress, knowing he isn’t helping. “He seems fine but you know better than anyone that you can’t really tell. Especially this early.”  
     
     “Are you swayed by our talk last night?”  
     
     “I don’t believe he’s cut from the same stone as Le Cabuc was. And where I don’t think that specific issue will arise again, there is no telling exactly what his story is nor what he’s seeking.” Combeferre says.  
     
     Enjolras studies his face for a second before accepting that’s the clearest answer he’s going to get and starts picking at the strawberries on his plate. “So it’s a wait and see kind of game.”  
     
     “I’m afraid so.”  
     
     “I hate waiting.”  
     
     “I know you do.” Combeferre chuckles. “But speaking of our discussion last night,” he clears his throat and Enjolras looks up from his food. “I think that it may be time to reconsider bringing strays through here as often as we do. This is nothing more than a general suggestion and is related to neither Le Cabuc nor Marius. We have met wonderful people this way. Hell, most of the leaders of our sister organizations were strays first but we are seeing more progress and with that comes more heat.”  
     
     Combeferre doesn’t add the part that they can’t assume Javert is blind to the fact that Courfeyrac and himself are the closest lieutenants to Enjolras, meaning they are the closest way to him nor does he mention Marius seems strangely attached to Courfeyrac already. That’s a conversation for Courfeyrac first.  
     
     Enjolras considers his words for a long moment, pushing his food around his plate. Still looking down pensively, he says, “I don’t want to close our doors.”  
     
     “Neither do I. But can’t we simply open other doors?”  
     
     “How so?”  
     
     “Keep this place a home base. A sanctuary for Les Amis only, and Marius should he join. I don’t see the reason behind having to question who is sleeping in the next room if we can prevent it.”  
     
     “I agree.” Courfeyrac speaks from the doorway. Both boys glance up, surprised at his sudden appearance. He moves in to sit on top of the table next to theirs. “Could we find a separate house? Close enough to keep an eye on it but far enough to stay distant.”  
     
     Enjolras nods, mulling the idea over in his head. Courfeyrac picks up a chunk of Enjolras’ bread and pops it in his mouth.  
     
     “I think it’s worth looking into. Once Cosette settles back in, we can sit down and figure out the finances.” Combeferre adds.  
     
     “You two are so smart,” Enjolras chuckles, looking up proudly at his two best friends.  
     
     “We are, aren’t we?” Courfeyrac jokes. “You should call me chief.”  
     
     “Gladly. I’ll make the announcement,” says Enjolras with a smirk. “I hate that nickname.”     
   
     “Nah, I don’t have the hair for it.” Courfeyrac reaches out and ruffles Enjolras’ golden locks out of the bun.

  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   

  
     No man is more diligent to the law than Javert and no boy is as eagerly hunted as Enjolras. The Chief of Police has been searching for the leader of Les Amis de l’ABC ever since he ran into the kid while chasing down Jean Valjean nearly seven years ago. Both managed to escape his grasp, one with the help of the other. There have been several run-ins since that fateful day and each one plays less in Javert’s favor than the last. The kid is starting to piss him off. Something is going to have to be done.  
     
     In his favorite dark coat that covers his black police uniform, the inspector sits at his perfectly organized desk with a straight back. His hat is carefully placed next to the neat rows of photographs, notes tucked in the corners of the desk. The subjects of the photos range from each known member of the Amis to scattered, blurry faces bleeding into the crowd circled in a red pen because they just might be one of the known six. One photo is only a low shot of a boot and the tip of a blade peaking out from under cuffed jeans. It may be Enjolras or Combeferre and it may be a detail, something that he must pull out later in a time of need, so Javert keeps it around. Javert memorizes it.  
     
     All the photos are printed out in black and white except for the best, clearest photo of Enjolras available. The kid’s face takes up most of the paper, his narrowed blue eyes are staring at something above the camera. His lips are curved ever so much into a satisfied smirk. This particular photo is usually hanging on the wall in Javert’s office, right next to the other nine on the list of most wanted, including his police sketch of Jean Valjean despite the rumor of his death. Drowning, not very satisfying. Javert still falters in that conclusion, so he keeps the sketch up and no one dares to move it. Today is a special day, though, so Enjolras’ photo is down on the desk. Today is an anniversary. Seven years ago, Enjolras’s silly ideals ran him into Javert’s hands and his similarity to the girl saved him by Valjean.  
     
     Valjean insisted she had nothing to do with it but of course Javert knew better. Javert was the expert on Valjean, and later on Enjolras. The blond hair, the blue eyes, the youthful face. They could be twins. Valjean saved the kid because he looked like his daughter and fell in love with him despite his ridiculous rants. That day, Valjean put the final nail in his coffin and Enjolras put in his first.  
     
     His knee stiffens under the desk and he exchanges his sitting position for pacing around the room. The bullet is no longer embedded in his leg, but he still feels the path it left in a maddening reminder. Justice is on his side, as is the Lord, and once he catches Enjolras, which he undoubtedly will because for men such as Javert there are no other options, the kid will feel a similar path through the back of his skull. And Jean Valjean will watch as helplessly as Javert has the last seven years because there is no way a man such as Jean Valjean simply drowns.  
     
     The door to his office swings open. He turns his scold at whoever dared to bother him, especially without knocking, on an anniversary.  
     
     “Sir,” the petty officer says with confidence rarely exerted in Javert’s steely presence.  
     
     “What?”  
     
     “We found something.”  
     
     The boy turns on his heel before Javert can respond. The Chief of Police is too eager to learn what information they uncovered to be offended at the lack of respect. He will deal with that child later. Down the hall to a large research room a man behind glasses bounces his foot nervously. He jumps up when Javert walks in, knocking his chair aside. The sound echoes in the crowded room that has fallen silent at his presence. This is the respect he deserves.  
     
     “What is it?”  
     
     “The girl.”  
     
     “What girl?”  
     
     “Cosette.” The man points a shaky finger at the screen. The grainy security camera footage doesn’t offer many details to the subject but it’s her. She is drifting through a crowd onto a train. Her face only flashes once to a camera but it’s her. Her blond hair is tucked up under a hat and she’s wearing a scarf high around her chin but her blue eyes flash across the screen. She looks innocent and lost under the sharp, fierce way she’s walking. Javert hasn’t seen her in a few years but after watching, waiting, searching for any hint of any relation to Enjolras and Valjean, he knows. It’s her.  
     
     “Where is she going?” He demands to know.      
      
     “Paris.”  
     
     Javert smiles. It is going to be a better anniversary than he’d anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed so any mistakes are mine and I'm so grateful for all the comments!!
> 
> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette misses her train

         He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear and flips a coin to the gamin, winking when the kid notices it’s worth much more than the single newspaper he just grabbed. Moving nondescriptly through the crowded park, he tucks the paper under his arm to light his cigarette. He finds an empty park bench directly in front of the steps and smiles at his luck, grateful he didn’t bring Bossuet along. Before opening his useless paper, he tucks a second cigarette behind his ear for easy access and irrational comfort. Realizing it’s his last one, he cringes. The now empty pack leaves his hand regrettably, sinking into the trashcan on the other side of the bench. He should have stolen a pack from Bahorel. Or Grantaire. Grantaire is grumpy anyway and Gavroche knows where he keeps his secret stash. It would only cost Feuilly a promise to the city, which he never minds. He sighs. It’s not like he had a lot of time to plan for this trip, he justifies to himself, but it doesn’t matter. Cosette is more important than his nicotine habit. Maybe he’ll use this as a jumpstart to quit. Feuilly barks out a laugh, shaking his head at that ridiculous notion, and picks up the paper. His pocket felt too light. He should have known.

     He has three hours before her train arrives and Feuilly plans on heading into the train station an hour before. In the two hours to kill, he looks at the pictures in the paper. Having no desire to read the fictional crap people call news, that’s as much attention he plans on giving it but a photo of Enjolras catches his eye and he caves. They haven’t been active in the last two weeks, trying to keep a lower profile for Cosette. It’s a small photo, neatly tucked in to the real estate section which is a joke in itself. The general population is struggling to buy bread yet alone a three-bedroom apartment in the heart of Paris or a renovated manor in farm country. Clearly the article has a target audience. Feuilly folds the paper so he can keep it easily in one hand while the other savors his second to last cigarette.

     The article is brief and startling accurate. The journalist doesn’t outright criticize the government but instead forces the reader to reflect on why Les Amis de l’ABC are considered such a threat when they benefit the poor as greatly as they do. Although not a call to arms, she’s pointing an indirect finger at the king and the governing families that are constantly in fear of a bunch of kids. She even calls them children. Her sarcasm would make Grantaire proud.   

     “Huh,” says Feuilly to himself. Optimistically, he rips out the square article. Perhaps the author can survive long enough for them to find her. Realistically, though, she’s already dead. She’s dead and the publisher has disappeared and the editor has lost a son or a brother or a dear cousin. The next time this happens, he’ll disappear too. Feuilly rests the cigarette between his lips and bends down to pretend to tie his boot. A quick scan of the general area gives no immediate threat and he slips the paper safely away.

     He pretends to glance through the rest of the newspaper then gives up to people watch. The paper is folded across his lap and he throws his arm over the back of the bench, letting his cigarette burn slowly. Time passes leisurely. He doesn’t mind it. The train station is an emotional location. There are plenty of sorrowful farewells and joyful reunions. There’s excitement buzzing in the young at the opportunity for an adventure and contentment in the elderly with the promise of something waiting just a train away. There’s the relief that can only come from stepping of a train and knowing you are _home_. It’s different than the anger in the city and the despair in the rural farms struggling through a third summer drought. He’d take sitting outside a train station over the volatile tension of politics any day.

     So he thinks at first, anyway. An hour goes by and soon he’s itching to light his last cigarette and wishing someone was with him. Bahorel and Courfeyrac are first choices, being good company, but Enjolras would be ideal because trouble follows Enjolras and Feuilly wouldn’t mind cops to evade or mercenaries to turn or crowds to rile up. He waits, though, patiently because this is a mission and every mission is important. And Enjolras would kill him if he fucks up when Cosette is on the line. He watches the people coming and going. He makes friends with a stray dog that falls asleep at his feet. The attention gives him an advantage, as it tends to do and in his diligence he’s able to spot at least two cops. One is feeding pigeons a few benches to his right and the other pretending to be a beggar on the stairs. Feuilly laughs, shaking his head. It’s a sad circus when the National Guard tries to go undercover, unnoticed. They always fuck up the details.

     The man feeding the birds is paying too much attention to the train station to actually enjoy feeding birds and the homeless man has a nice beard. What beggar trims his beard? The two don’t make him particularly nervous just yet. The Amis are a terrorist group but they aren’t the _only_ terrorist group and they made damn sure that there was no activity that could bring attention to the station.

     Still, Feuilly shifts in his seat. He checks his watch and pulls his cap further over his red hair before making his way inside. The first thing he does is buy a ticket for the train departing four hours after Cosettes’ at the same terminal, then proceeds to circle the station in what he hopes is a nonchalant, _just trying to kill time_ kind of way while noting every emergency exit, every possible way out, and what you need to get through the Employee Only doors. He lifts a key off of a well dressed manager and keeps an eye on him so he can return it without bringing trouble on an innocent citizen should things go as planned. If things don’t go planned, the man will be interrogated but should be cleared once it’s obvious Les Amis were involved. He’s too highly paid to be involved with them any how.

     Half an hour prior to her train arriving, Feuilly takes a seat at the front of the terminal and waits. Nonchalance is forgotten when the train arrives. He stays seated yet his eyes flicker to every face. He bites the inside of his cheeks as he searches the full train. There are no familiar faces. There are blue eyes but they are too old or too young. There is blond hair but they’re too dull and too flat. There are beautiful girls but they are German and there are friendly waves but they aren’t directed to him. There is no Cosette. Feuilly waits half an hour after the terminal clears. Then an hour. He stands up and immediately spots the wolf like stare that they have all learned to be hyper aware of on the other side of the station.

     Javert’s cold blue eyes lock on his for a split second longer than a normal glance. He ducks his head and pulls down his cap and aims his feet to the nearest door, not seeing but knowing Javert cocks his head to the side and takes a step forward. His escape is a maintenance room and the manager’s key fits smoothly. He unlocks it before entering because he dressed to look like a passenger, not an employee. He forces himself to take a calm breath. A casual glance around building leaves him mostly confident enough to slip in, despite not seeing where Javert snuck off to. The noise from the pipes makes it impossible to hear if he is followed but he heads through to the other side as if he had been, just in case. There’s an emergency exit but he risks a fire alarm should he open it and now stealthiness is vital. Cosette’s not here but she’s also not with Javert because he thinks she’s here. Feuilly needs to keep it that way because where ever she is, she’s safe if Javert’s not looking there.

     Looking around he spies a window above a storage shelf. He has to perch precariously on the edge of the flimsy metal to reach the latch, which is locked. As he makes quick work of sliding his knife under the bolt, the door opens. He can’t hear it but he sees the movement out of the corner of his eyes and pulls himself away from the window into the back corner of the shelf. It creaks. The noise is far too loud around him for the man to hear yet it doesn’t settle Feuilly’s worries of it caving in on him. Thank god Bahorel isn't with him. He watches as the man moves about the room, taking note of a few pressure readings. When he leaves, Feuilly doesn’t sigh. He simply goes back to unlocking the window. Only once the latch gives does he allow himself a breath.

     Deciding he can slip through easily enough without being noticed, grateful it’s not facing the park, he tosses the managers key to the floor. He sheathes his knife for the jump. Bossuet has made that mistake too many times for them not to think of it. Once his feet hit, he rolls into the fall and as he rises, his hand immediately goes to his knife handle. A quick look around tells him he went unnoticed. He brushes himself off and rounds the corner of the building, then pulls out his phone. Before dialing, he pulls the cigarette from behind his ear and puts it between his lips.

     “She wasn’t on the train.” He pauses before adding, “Javert’s here.”

     There’s a moment when Feuilly can only hear the calculated breaths before he gets his next orders. He listens patiently, hanging up with a _sure thing, Chief_. Feuilly sighs and lights his last cigarette. He’ll pick up a new pack on his way to Germany.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
     Her dad would use the situation to try and reinforce her faith in the good God above. Enjolras would smile at the irony and Combeferre would boast about the general good nature of people. Cosette is simply happy she made the right decision. The right choice. Well, hopefully. The three voices had echoed in her head for thirty miles before Berlin as the feeling of someone’s eyes on her back grew more noticeable. Her father’s reminded her to be cautious. Combeferre’s told her to trust her instincts and everything Enjolras has ever taught her whether directly or not floated in and out of her mind. Ten hours away from home, from her family, and she stepped away. She stepped away from trouble that may have very well all be in her head. Tears threaten.     

     _Things go wrong. When it’s necessary, because it will be necessary at one time or another, pull back, take a deep breath, and reassess,_ Combeferre had said the very first day Cosette met him. The words were to a bloodied and bruised Enjolras but she’s heard the blond repeat them through out the years. _There is only admiration for falling back to fight another day when that next day can be more productive._ _  
_

He added the latter part but every time he’s said it, there is a shared smile between the two boys. Enjolras doesn’t always seem to follow his own advice, she muses as she remembers stories and pieces of information she wasn’t supposed to know. That conversation being one of the first. That’s a chat she must have with him, among others. Many, many others because it’s been a long year. Feeling herself grow nostalgic, she rolls her neck and checks the time on her fathers’ watch. She misses her family. In the back of the van, Cosette busies herself with imaging how tight of a hug she’ll get from Éponine and Jehans’ squeals, Courfeyrac picking her up in a sweeping embrace and the loud dinner table, everyone battling for the right to tell one story or another. It can go from valiant to embarrassing with a simple narrator change.

     She tells herself she made the right decision for the ten millionth time. Behind closed eyes, she sees Enjolras unable to contain his excitement as he sits and fidgets and inches closer, asking her question after question after question with a smile that continues to grow. He listens intently to every single answer she gives him as if they’re the words of Robespierre himself until he’s holding her, hugging her, close to tears in his overwhelming happiness in something as simple as she’s just _there_.   

      The face so familiar and loved and missed turns stoic in her daydream, then furious. He pulls back and strides out of the room, leaving her alone and cold. Cosette jolts up in the van, not realizing she fell asleep. A few of the passengers glance at her. She smiles sweetly in the way she knows she can and they smile back the way old women smile at pretty, youthful girls.    

     Enjolras’ face still sits in her view. His fear, his concern, his worry. It’s the same face she saw in the park on her little bench she made her hideaway for three hours. It’s the same face that broke her heart and made her doubt every instinct that told her to _run_ but it’s also the only thing that kept her from getting on the train. Over her father’s concern, Combeferre’s wisdom, and her own self-doubt, Enjolras’ smile called her attention. Enjolras smiling at her, full of relief and pride. Enjolras smiling at her in the small amazed way he has when he’s suddenly hit with an awareness of how much he truly loves someone. Combeferre gets it late at night. Courfeyrac after a well placed joke. Grantaire gets it when he looks up and catches Enjolras staring at him.  She wouldn’t risk losing her smile. If she doesn’t show up to the house on time, at least she can guarantee she’ll show up alive and as long as Enjolras doesn’t do anything stupid, a little concern is worth a little precaution.    

     _As long as Enjolras doesn’t do anything stupid_ , Cosette laughs to herself before guilt nestles itself on her chest and she makes a note to call him as soon as she can find a phone. And learn how to hack the monitoring systems so she doesn’t accidentally send the entire police force down on the house while her family sleeps. Supposedly Courfeyrac figured it out when he was eight and Combeferre when he was eleven. She knows she’s not that smart and this call wouldn’t exactly be a low risk trial. She’d also need to be on alert while on the phone. With her hearing distracted she’d be vulnerable. It would help if she had a gun. But then she’d have to learn how to shoot and aim and kill on the spot. She has a knife, the beautiful pearl handled knife Enjolras gave her the last time she saw him, nearly a year ago, but she still has that gash on her finger from where she was cutting strawberries last week and that was a simple kitchen knife and unarmed fruit.    

     Cosette drops her head to her hands. Why did she insist on going alone? _To keep him safe_. But he’d never forgive himself if something happened to her. That would be the worst scenario, she realizes. Getting caught or killed or kidnapped after insisting she travel four days by herself cross-continents without any of the skills necessary to protect herself against the attention her name brings. Enjolras’ face fills her vision again. She rubs her face in her hands roughly because she can’t handle seeing the guilt, the fear in his eyes. She had threatened withholding details of her trip once he decided he’d come to her and then travel back with her to ensure she was safe. That was a ridiculous plan of his anyway, no matter how much her father agreed. But then she wouldn’t have to be alone and Cosette hates being alone. Enjolras wouldn’t have to worry. Enjolras would protect her.    

     This is a good thing, she reminds herself. Enjolras will teach her everything. He will teach her how to anticipate and react, how to handle a knife, how defend herself against any kind of attack. He’ll teach her how to stay alive in the life she thinks she wants. He’ll show her how to change the world.   

     There is a tear in her eye which she quickly wipes away. She misses her family. Damn the raised hair on the back of her neck. Damn Javert.     

     On that bench in the park opposite of the station she had sat and debated and watched as her ten hour train home train left. Without her on it. So she sat, thinking and biting her lip as she ran her thumb over the pearl handle of the knife hidden in her backpack. An hour went by. Then another. Eventually it was going to get dark and she’d have to go somewhere, do something. She wasn’t scared. Afraid, maybe because fear _is a motivation, it is powerful_ , she had convinced herself. Enjolras’ faithful smile flashed in her head and she spotted the nuns packing their van. That was it. That was her way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette and Feuilly are late, leaving Enjolras with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this I realized two things. One: I have never actually written action like this before (the latter half). So this is new and I would love to hear how it worked out because where I can picture it perfectly in my head, as most who write probably know, it doesn't always come across right and it flows into the next chapter so I can still change things. And two: Where I have been to Paris I don't know it well enough to write about it with complete confidence so any inaccurate directions, streets, general statements are completely due to my lack of knowledge and are simply general assumptions I'm making.

     Cosette and Feuilly aren’t home. It’s Friday and Cosette and Feuilly aren’t home. Enjolras stands on the top of the front step, his arms across his chest and his thumb tapping methodically against his bottom lip. He’s been standing there for hours. For nearly eight. Not that Grantaire is really counting or anything. The artist sits with his back against the scratchy brick wall next to the front door with some wine and a sketchpad. He’s been sitting there since Enjolras has been standing there, since he woke up before the sunrise anxious for Cosette. His stare alternates between Enjolras and the closed gate where Bossuet is sitting on the wall, looking back to the front steps occasionally to shake his head. The kid had fallen off the edge into the bushes twice until Joly finally went and sat out there with him. Grantaire laughed both times. Enjolras did not. He flinched and made sure Bossuet was alright but he didn’t laugh.    

     Throughout the day, Combeferre came and went. Going from handling shit in the house to standing stoically next to Enjolras in simple transitions. For the first few hours, that was the only activity since no one was awake except those four. More recently, Courfeyrac and Jehan joined them, sitting on the stairs not far from the chief. The irishman sits as stoically as Enjolras, staring out where Enjolras stares out, but Jehan switches from writing in his notebook to watching the gate, just as Grantaire does. The charcoal scratching against the thick sketch paper and the inky pen sliding against the slick journal are the only sounds outside of their breathing and the early morning crickets.   

     Later Bahorel began to pace in front of the steps and Marius sat out on the sunburnt grass, studying each man curiously with no ability to fully understand the weight of the situation. Not even Courfeyrac offers him a reassuring smile. He tries not to feel jealous and settles for lost. He tries not to stare at the still Enjolras, the deadly still and remarkably silent Enjolras. He tries to ignore the shiver down his spine as each silent and still minute that passes causes Enjolras to grow more and more terrifying.   

     Marius is the only one who jumps when a phone rings. It comes from Courfeyrac’s hands and the boy doesn’t look at it before passing it to Enjolras. The chief doesn’t answer the phone with more than a stern look. There is a moment where everyone holds their breath and the quiet muffles of the other speaker can just barely be heard. Enjolras nods to something that is said but does not respond for several long, drawn out breaths. When he does, there is resolution in his tone.   

     “Backtrack three days.” Enjolras commands, before adding, “Safely, Feuilly.”    

     He hangs up the phone and tosses it to Courfeyrac. Standing on the stairs, arms crossed, he stares ahead. Deadly still. Deadly quiet. Fucking terrifying. “Courf. Bahorel.” Enjolras says, his eyes caught on the gate with a focused glare. “Go get ready. We leave in ten minutes.”   

     The two disappear without a second thought. Next to Enjolras, Combeferre stands a few inches taller but just as stoic. “Problems?”   

     “She wasn’t on the train.” Enjolras tells him in steady voice, forcing his fear and concern into productive action instead of spiraling emotions. “Javert was there.”   

     “Meaning she’s probably still alive.” Combeferre nods. “What’s the plan?”   

     “Feuilly will follow her trip three days back while we grab Javert’s attention.”   

     “Any ideas how?”   

     “Well, we need those files don’t we?” He asks with a smirk and a raise eyebrow.   

     “The ones Courfeyrac was supposed to get.” Combeferre says, nodding as he mulls over the idea in his head. When he decides he likes it, his smile is slightly restrained with a familiar underlying concern. “Be smart, E.”   

     The blond turns to his friend with a smile that charms the fear from Marius and the worry from Combeferre. “Always.”  

     He pats his friend on the arm and turns to Grantaire, who is waiting for him by the door. They don’t speak as the one follows the other to their room. Leaning against the closed door, Grantaire watches his boyfriend change into dark jeans and an almost faded red shirt. It’s too warm for his trademark red jacket but this is a specific mission, one where discrepancy is the enemy, and Enjolras will make himself as obvious as possible. He’ll make himself a target. When he sits on the bed to slip on his _easy to wash the blood off_ boots, Grantaire finally moves forward. The artist is quick and silent, straddling his lap and pushing the blond hair off his face in a smooth motion. Enjolras doesn't push him away. He doesn’t tell him they don’t have the time. He rarely does when Grantaire’s frown is this deep set, when his concern is this loud. Instead, he wraps his arms around Grantaire’s waist and keeps him close, letting him stare and memorize the way he is always desperate to before parting. The artist runs his thumbs across Enjolras’ cheek bones and down his jaw line, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him _this is the last time you’ll see him._    

     He looks away.    

     “It’ll be fine.” Enjolras tells him, his voice laced with exasperation and amused affection.   

     “There’s no guarantee.”   

     “It’s routine.”    

     “It’s not.” Grantaire cuts Enjolras’ counter off, “You’re taunting Javert. That’s not routine.”   

     “We aren’t taunting him. We’re going to make a lot of noise and draw some attention.” Enjolras is using his _calm the crowd, charm the uncertain_ voice. It stirs something unpleasant in Grantaires’ veins. “That’s all.”   

     “Don’t you dare lie to me.” He says, low and dangerous.     

     Enjolras looks at him, hurt by the accusation, but when he speaks again, he’s no longer using that tone. It now mimics Grantaires’ without the challenge. “I have never lied to you and I will never lie to you. We are a distraction. That’s all.”   

     “You are taunting him,” repeats Grantaire. His thumbs start tracing the curves of his lips, not letting him respond. He’s losing his nerve. He falls in, burying his face in the crook of Enjolras’ neck. “Promise me,” he pleads in a whisper.   

     “Promise what?”   

     “Promise me you’ll be safe.”   

     “I promise I’ll be safe.”   

     “And you won’t do anything stupid.” It’s muffled against his collar bone.   

     “And I won’t do anything stupid.” Enjolras says with a small laugh. He presses a kiss against the dark curls. “I promise. It’s going to be so routine, I’m sure Bahorel will complain the whole way home.”   

     Grantaire snorts a laugh and damn it if he lost. He presses his smile harder into Enjolras’ neck and revels in the way Enjolras pulls him closer. A few minutes pass before Enjolras’ hands move from around him to his hips, a sign of his growing impatience. Not wanting to force Enjolras to say something, Grantaire sits up. He kisses him, slow and soft, before wordlessly standing up to let him finish tying his boots. The silence is deafening.    

     Grantaire follows him back downstairs. Right before the door, Enjolras turns on his heel, grabbing Grantaire’s face in his hands, and kisses him again, fiercely this time. “I love you.”   

     “I love you, too.” Grantaire replies a little breathless from the kiss.   

     Outside, Enjolras is no longer his and their fingers part. Courfeyrac and Bahorel are standing by the steps. They fall into stride behind Enjolras as he passes, meeting Combeferre at the garage to the side of the house. Grantaire watches from the step next to Jehan.   

     “What’s the plan, chief?” Courfeyrac asks, checking the chamber of his semi-automatic. The metal clicks in the vast building.   

     “We’ll pick up the dossier on the minister of agriculture, make a few bangs, then pull attention up north.” Enjolras tosses the keys of the black cadillac to Bahorel who hisses a _fuck yeah_ and nearly skips to the car he rarely gets to drive. “We’ll head west to crash for the night. After that depends on what we hear from Feuilly.”   

     Holstering his gun securely around his ankle, Courfeyrac nods. “Sounds solid.”   

     “As far as we know Javert was at the train station half an hour ago.” Combeferre tells them. “If he’s still there, it won’t take him long to get to you once you’re called in. If he’s back at his office, it’ll be even quicker.”   

     “We won’t make any noise until after we get the papers. Force him to hang around once we’re gone.” Enjolras states, adjusting the strap around his leg, moving it lower so the tip of the knife is buried in his boot and he can just feel it when he moves his ankle. He then checks and rechecks his father’s single-action revolver before holstering it on his thigh. It’s the kind of gun ideal for catching someone’s eye, not the kind for an execution. He doesn’t even keep it fully loaded.   

     Combeferre notices Courfeyrac is watching the blond’s careful movements the same way he is. There is a restrained calm in Enjolras’ quiet actions as he’s getting ready. They’re familiar and routine to all of them but the tightness of his jaw and the way his eyes flicker away distractedly for a few seconds at a time is entirely off Enjolras’ normal nearly obsessive focus and it grabs the two boys’ attention. Courfeyrac catches Combeferres’ furrowed brow and sends a wink in his direction, a silent _I’ll keep an eye on him_ promise.    

     “Alright, boys.” Combeferre says after Enjolras sinks into the passenger seat and Courfeyrac in the back. “Call when you can. Keep on your toes and be smart.”   

     Bahorel revs the engine but Enjolras hangs out of the window for a quick word with Combeferre, who steps closer to hear him. “Keep an eye on Grantaire for me?”   

     “I can make sure Éponine keeps an eye on him.” Combeferre replies with a smirk, the same way he has been for the past three years. His friend chuckles, then leans further out to grip his arm, his hand wrapping around Combeferre’s forearm the same way Combeferre’s wraps around his. He pulls back but Combeferre tightens his hold. “Stay focused.”   

     “Distract away from Cosette and-”   

     “And come home.” The boy nods slowly, agreeing in a cautious way that Combeferre doesn’t like. “Come home safely, E.”   

     The demand snaps something in Enjolras’ attention and he grins at his friend. Not in his charming way or his deceiving way but the way a twenty-four year old who’s going to blow something up would smile and it settles a nerve in Combeferre’s chest. Not all of his nerves because he’s never completely comfortable when a someone is out on an assignment, especially Enjolras, but it’s enough to let go of his best friends’ arm. The blond salutes with a wicked smirk as Bahorel peels out of the garage with a howl. He can’t help but laugh as he makes his way back to the house to sit on the steps next to Grantaire, just like he has done for the last three years.

  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------    

 

     “Arrest him!” Javert shouts, storming through the hall. Bodies part and hide behind doors. “Arrest the dumb son of a bitch!”   

     “Sir, we can not arrest him. Technically, he did nothing wrong.”    

     The police inspector stops and turns to face the officer, fire spitting in his eyes. Under his gaze, the younger man shrinks but does not back down. “We had her.”   

     “Sir,”   

     “Arrest him!”   

     The officer takes a deep breath. “We can not arrest him.”   

     “Then fire him!”   

     “We can not fire him either, sir.”   

     “Send his ass to Africa then! Antarctic. Chile. Get him the fuck out of my country!” Javert says, turning away before the officer can reply. The hall is clear all the way to his office and the building is silent after his hinge-shattering door slam. His office is suddenly smaller than he remembered it being but it is still long enough for him to pace angrily. He hits the desk twice but doesn’t notice. They had her. They had her and therefore they had them _all_. What went wrong?   

     The kid was there. Javert’s seen his face before. He turns on his heel away from the door and storms to his desk, pushing the photos around until he spies the red headed boy. He’s even wearing the same newspaper boy cap that he had on at the train station. With a thick black marker, Javert circles his face and writes _confirmed_ above it. The photo is moved from the Perhaps pile to the Confirmed pile and for a moment the satisfaction of the ever growing collection of information is enough to push past his anger.    

     Once he lost the boys’ tracks, Javert returned to the police station. The kid knew what they knew, Cosette wasn’t there and just as the kid had no other reason to be there, Javert had no other reason to be there.    

     This leads to two questions. Where is Cosette if she’s didn’t get on the train and why was there one of Enjolras’ men there if Cosette wasn’t there? Did Enjolras not know she wasn’t going to be there? If so, why send a man instead of coming himself? Certainly Enjolras would want to ensure Cosette’s safe, return? Arrival? Transfer? Whatever her intentions behind coming to Paris. Unless he knew she wasn’t going to be there. Where was she? She’s the key to catching Valjean the same way she’s the key to catching Enjolras. Then why send the ginger? Perhaps there are a few questions.    

     “Inspector?” A voice calls after a timid knock. Javert growls at both the interruption and the lack of answers, then relaxes at the thought of having a target for his anger. He’s been reprimanded for wrongly punishing his inferiors before, like trying to fire the tech who spotted Cosette in the first place, but surely the King would agree with him on this one. The only person who wants Enjolras more than Javert is the King. He swings open the door but stops short in his overwhelming rage at the only thing that could bring him to a halt. “It’s Enjolras.”   

     “What about him?”   

     “He’s been spotted in the city.”   

     “Is it a reliable source?”   

     “One of our own, sir.”   

     Maybe Cosette was a distraction. The red headed man there to ensure Javert showed up. “Where?”   

     “The eighth arrondissement.”   

     “There was an attempted robbery there a few nights ago.” Javert says to himself, running a hand over his mouth in thought. The kid’s up to something. “How long ago?”   

     “The call just came in,” answers the man in front of him. Javert studies the steady officer. The younger man’s eyes are narrow, jaw clenched. He looks excited, hopeful even. The inspector smirks at the enthusiasm the law draws.   

     “Gather three other men and don’t mention this to anyone else.” Javert orders. A small team means they are quicker, quieter. If Enjolras thinks Javert is at the train station, he may be able to sneak up on the boy. “We leave in five minutes.”   

     The officer nods, salutes, and runs off. Javert collects both his service weapons, checking and holstering them safely around his shoulders. They are covered by the black coat, a staple to the Inspector uniform he proudly wears despite the blistering heat. Outside in the early afternoon sun all four petty officers wait by Javert’s truck with their own coats, their own service weapons, and their own stern concentration. Javert smiles. The disappointment of missing Cosette doesn’t matter if they get Enjolras. Better, even. Skip the middle man.   

     Javert drives through the city, his lights off and his caution forgotten. He leads the small well-trained army to the street where the most government families live while in the city, no doubt in his mind that if Enjolras is here, that’s where his interest is, but he parks two blocks down. Quick and quiet. His first priority is the house that reported a tampered alarm system, the supposed target of the robbery. It’s a grand home, elegant mold trimmings and magnificent arches over the windows. There’s no sign of Enjolras being here but Javert overrides the alarm and slips in anyway, confident that the owners won’t come near the house for years in fear of what Les Amis have done to their friends and now that they have targets on their backs. Once the front door is closed, there is immediately movement in the kitchen, then a gunshot. The officer next to Javert drops with a hole in his cheek. Instincts take over and Javert steps behind the wall, heartbeat racing at the sudden attack but he smiles. He’s here.   

     “Enjolras! You’re under arrest! Come out now with your hands raised and we will not kill on sight.” Javert shouts. His voice echoes up the stairs behind him.   

     There’s a chuckle, then a response that is far too deep to be Enjolras. “Sorry, man. I don’t know who Enjolras is so if you’ll be so kind, I’ll simply be leaving now.”   

     “Come out with your hands raised!” Javert demands again. There is another shot and a second man falls, the man guarding Javert’s back from the stairs. The bullet’s path was only an inch from his hat. The inspector spins on his heel, aiming his gun up. First thing he sees is that goddamn smirk that brings him so many sleepless night, then the wink. Javert fires his weapon but Enjolras is disappearing down the hall before the trigger even clicks. He leaves one man there to kill which ever friend Enjolras brought with him and the three men sprint after Enjolras. Javert reaches the top of the stairs just in time to see a door at the end of the hall click silently shut.    

     He doesn’t bother checking the other rooms. If Enjolras is there, that’s where he wants to be. The idea that this may be an ambush passes his mind but the kid put too much effort in trying to distract Javert with whatever the stunt at the train station was. If it were an ambush, he would want newspapers and cameras around to record yet another failed attempt to grabbing him. The door groans open but Javert presses forward, his gun out in front of him, antsy to hit his mark. The library has three rows of bookshelves filling the middle of the room, a few desks pressed against the wall, and a rich, dark decor of velvet reds and earthy greens. The only visibility comes from the window in the far corner, dusk fluttering between the books ominously. Seven years of hunting the kid and it seems fitting that he’ll kill him in a room that signifies everything Enjolras has fought against.   

     Opposite of the window, Enjolras slides against the wall, behind a thick shelf. Glancing through the open space between the wood and the plaster, he watches Javert’s gun slip through the cracked door as he steps further into the room. The two officers follow his steady footsteps, guns raised, scanning the room.   

     “He’s in here for sure,” hisses one officer.   

     “Wait outside. Lock the door.” Javert orders. He stares at the officer to add, “Don’t open for anything.”   

     Enjolras’ blue eyes flicker to the window opposite his position, then back to Javert and the officers. There’s a moment he considers shooting his way through, finding the boys, and leaving. Surely he wouldn’t escape unscathed, but he probably wouldn’t die unless they caught a lucky shot and luck is always in his favor when he’s up against Javert. Except today, he thinks. They got here far faster than they anticipated. He considers running, of getting out with guaranteed safety but the idea of being alone in a room with Javert, should he have the upper hand, is tempting. Too tempting, is seems, as the distinct click of the deadbolt sounds through out the room and his options disappear. It sends a shiver down Enjolras’ back and the hair on his neck raises but his heart skips a beat in his excitement.    

     He stays in his corner, still and relaxed. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His gun is holstered but the familiar blade rests on his leg, tilted so it doesn’t catch the light. It’s sharpened and well loved, the curves of the handle molded from years of use to his hand and his hand alone. He’s adequate with his hands, sufficient with a gun but he’s unstoppable with his knife.   

     He watches Javert motion silently to the officer to take one side of the room as he goes to the other. They’re hoping to draw him to the middle, the tactic is easy enough to predict. Javert goes left. The officer goes right. Enjolras’ fortune is already back in his favor. He times the footsteps, waiting until they mimic his heartbeat. Once the rhythm matches, he steps out of his corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Javert face off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just wanted to warn anyone, there is a bit (fair deal, actually) of violence and blood in this chapter. Like, the first sentence sums it up perfectly. Also, hopefully I was able to keep the action believable. I have the next few chapters written and should be able to update rather quickly still.

         Enjolras covers the officers’ mouth with his left hand and with a simple, familiar twist of his wrist his knife opens the carotid artery. In the twenty-three seconds the man struggles, Enjolras keeps him tight against his chest, a hand still over his mouth. He arches his back to catch the man’s gun and turns into his corner, aiming the blood to the wall. Certainly Javert heard something. The soft scratch of metal through skin, the sputter of blood hitting his shirt, the short scuffle of dropping the body. If he hadn’t, the now death ridden silence says enough.   

     He wipes the blade on his jeans with a quick, proficient swipe almost as well practiced as the twist to a neck before sheathing it and fitting the officers’ gun to his red stained hand, emptying the extra gun over the dead man’s chest. He hadn’t prepared for this but it’ll work. Comfortable with the new weapon, he follows the wall around the room continuing the path the officer would have. His footsteps are silent on the wooden floors and he can hear the soft movement of Javerts’. Peaking out of the end of the bookshelf, Enjolras catches a flash of uniform rounding the corner opposite of him. The wolf’s scanning the aisle carefully. Dropping to his knees, Enjolras raises his gun. It’s a tough shot, angled around the bookshelves and across the room. It doesn’t feel right. He pulls back, turning on the floor to backtrack. The shot would not only give him away but waste a bullet. If it escalated into a fire fight, Javert would have the upper hand. Few have the ability to hit the target and make it count. Feuilly, Jehan, and under the right conditions Grantaire. Not Enjolras. He would rather use his knife.   

     As he retreats down the wall, back to his corner, he pauses. Then empties the cartridge to the officers’ gun. Tossing the bullets and the heavy metal alongside the other gun on the dead man, he reaches down and pulls out his knife in a fluid stride of turning the corner. He stops short, cocking his head to listen for Javert. The man sounds close. Too close. Stalking down the aisle Enjolras is standing at the end of. He spins and, as he had with the first kill, he counts the steps. They aren’t as easy to hear, better trained with better instincts, but they are the only sound in the room. He waits until they are as close as he is comfortable with before biting the knife between his teeth and placing two firm hands on the wooden shelf, intent to level the playing field. There is a moment where he tilts his head, having to regrettably give up the idea of collecting a few books for Combeferre or Jehan, as the footsteps match his breathing and he has to heave.   

     As planned Javert is too close to the end to get caught under the weight of the wood but he’s distracted by the falling books and the sudden flight to escape. Enjolras gets the much needed jump on the larger man, tackling him to the ground. He manages to pull the gun from his hand and throw it under the fallen bookshelf that rests precariously on the middle one and out of reach unless he risked crawling in. One tap to the middle shelf would bring all of them down. Driven by instinct and self-preservation, both men have a thing against being trapped. It’s a safe bet that the gun is no longer a viable option. Pinning Javert down with the weight of his body, Enjolras drops his knife from his mouth, catching it before it stabs Javert in the chest and presses the cool metal against his neck before he can think of trying to toss underneath him.   

     “You know,” Enjolras says a little breathless. He adjusts his other hands’ grip on Javert’s coat. “I never believed in luck until I met you.”   

     “Luck has two sides.”   

     “We’ll have to get coffee one day so you can tell me all about misfortune.” He leans in to add, “You seem to have more experience with bad luck than I do.” Javert growls under him, shifting his shoulders to test the weight but freezes with a frustrated huff when Enjolras presses the knife closer to his skin. It’s sharp enough to scrape the skin and draw harmless blood. For the moment, Enjolras ignores how much he likes the image. He’s not supposed to kill Javert, as example by Valjean. Instead, he tsks. “Inspector, your impatience is something to frown upon. We so rarely get quality time together.”   

     “What are you doing here Enjolras?” He hisses. “The elaborateness of this plan is not worth whatever information you could possible gain from the minister. Why go through all this trouble for some papers on farming distribution?”   

     Enjolras knits his brow. This plan is loud not elaborate. It took him all of a minute to put the details together and even then, they haven’t blown anything up yet. “What can I say, I like to have some flair. It makes even the quietest assholes feel appreciated in their public death announcements.”   

     “Maybe Valjean really is dead. He’d never let Cosette play a part in your psychopathic games.” Javert concludes with raised eyebrows, pretending to disapprove.   

     “Awe, Javert. No luck at the train station?” He plays along, hoping to get more information as to what ever Javert thinks is going on.   

     “As I’m sure your red headed friend reported. But tell me, is Combeferre okay with this plan or is it causing a falling out? Taking such a risk with the girl. To be honest, I hope not. It would be horribly dissatisfying if the thing that brought you down was a disagreement with your buddy and not my trigger finger.”   

     Despite himself Enjolras loses count of his breaths, anger spreading a red blush up his neck. He can’t handle the sound of his best friends’ name on the animals’ tongue. No longer thinking with intention but fueled by pure rage, Enjolras pulls his knife back and hits Javert in the nose with the stone handle in his open palm. The crunch of bone is satisfying, as is the sudden spread of blood but it’s a mistake and he knew it before he even raised his hand. The unbalance he risked is instantly taken advantage of by the chief of police and he pitches his weight to throw Enjolras off. Javert has the upper hand of both height and strength and where Enjolras is quicker, it doesn’t prevent him from being pinned just the same as he had Javert.   

     Their positions flipped, Javert keeps a firm hold on Enjolras’ knife yielding hand, landing a few retribution punches, then draws out his second gun. Before he can place it against the boy’s head, Enjolras’ wrist twists just enough to catch the edge of the blade on his arm. It draws blood and the surprised pain loosens Javert’s fingers enough for Enjolras to punch him a second time in the face, then slit the arm of his other hand. The quick hit of his hand that follows sends the gun skidding across the floor, landing under the fallen bookshelf and out of reach. Both men watch it for a second, then Enjolras laughs. It’s cut short by a growl and that gun is forgotten. Regaining his hold on Enjolras hand, he pins the wrist to the floor with no angle for him to repeat the same move. The blond doesn’t let go of the weapon as Javert lands three swift hits, then a forth that leaves Enjolras blinking away the blood from a new cut above his eye. Javert shifts up on his chest, his weight making it difficult to breath, and reaches down for Enjolras’ revolver.    

     Knowing there are only two bullets in his gun, he only ever puts two bullets in it, Enjolras drops his knife to force both hands around Javert’s. It’s not enough to disarm him, but it’s enough to adjust the direction of the barrel away from him just as Javert shoots. The two bullets are buried in the wood floor an inch from his head and the ringing in his ear drops his hands on the gun. It drowns out the quick snaps of the trigger being pulled, the clicks of an empty chamber, and he doesn’t see but feels the hot metal against his temple. The sudden nausea and pain spiraling through out his head cause his hands to shake, momentarily forgetting his predicament. He takes long, forceful blinks and heavy breaths, futile against the weight on his lungs.   

     The butt of his own gun smacking into his jaw brings Javert’s face back into view. The ringing doesn’t disappear but it fades as the seconds tick by. Javert creases his forehead in a false grimace of concern. “I sure hope that’s not permanent. I know how much you like the sound of your own voice.”    

     Enjolras tries to shake the deafness from his ear but freezes as the edge of his own knife is felt against his neck. There is a no kill suggestion on Javert but the king himself demanded Enjolras’ head. Not one to sit through chats he’s not leading and with full knowledge it’ll end up as his last words, Enjolras immediately grabs the blade and pulls it away from his neck, startling Javert. The sharp pain of the metal cutting into his hand is far better than the pressure on his neck. With his other hand, Enjolras pulls Javert’s hair back, exposing his neck and landing a punch to the man’s windpipe wincing as the blade cuts deeper into his hand with the impact. It’s enough to allow him to slip out from Javert’s hold. Still on his back, he kicks Javert hard in the chest with the bottom of his feet. The corners of his mouth twitch up at the satisfying sound of the air leaving his lungs as he falls but he doesn’t stop to enjoy it. Enjolras pushes him to his back and raises his blade as high as he can before digging it into the wood under Javert’s arm, the mans’ coat, shirt, and holster strap caught between it. It won’t hold him for long but it should give him enough of a head start.   

     Leaving Javert there to struggle against the knife, Enjolras sprints to the window. His heart falls into his stomach. He knew there was a balcony in the bedroom, but it’s much too far to jump. Maybe he could risk it, if his hearing wasn’t throwing off his balance so drastically. He can’t jump. He’s trapped.   

     There’s a frustrated grunt from the inspector and Enjolras runs back to the only way out, more than willing to deal with the officer on the other side if it means a possible escape. Just a few feet in front of Javert, Enjolras kicks at the door. His heavy boot lands just next to the dead blot but it doesn’t budge. He kicks again and again. A glance over his shoulder shows Javert finally pulling the knife out of the floor, freeing himself. Enjolras goes to kick one last time but the door flings open. He dodges the raised gun, throwing himself against the wall before seeing the familiar face behind the weapon.    

     “You alright, E?” Courfeyrac asks, sending a quick glance to his friend. His gun is aimed at Javert who is slowly rising to his feet. Enjolras nods but doesn’t answer. For now it’s enough for Courfeyrac to ignore the blood and the heavy breaths. “Good. The car’s waiting outside.”   

     “He has my knife,” says Enjolras softly. He can just barely hear his own words over the echo in his right ear but it’s not the first time a gunshot has ruptured an ear drum and he refuses to indulge Javert induced injuries in front of the man.    

     “We’ll get you a new knife.” Courfeyrac tries to express their urgency. “We have less than three minutes.”   

     “I like that one.” The blond states evenly.    

     Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. He knows it’s more than just the weapon Enjolras wants. It’ll put Javert in place beneath them, a small reminder that they have won yet again. “Toss the knife over slowly. The gun, too.” Courfeyrac adds, spying Enjolras’ revolver at his feet.   

     “Come get it from me,” challenges Javert. Not in the mood for games that would leave them too close to the explosion, Courfeyrac fires a shot and Javert flinches as the wind ruffles his hair. Reluctantly, he drops the knife to his feet.    

     “God damn it Javert, we don’t have time for this shit.” Courfeyrac shoots two more times in quick succession and the man kicks them both over. Enjolras picks up the knife, wipes the blood on his leg, and replaces it above his ankle, then the gun on his thigh. “It’s always a pleasure.” Courfeyrac says dryly as he backs out of the room.   

     “One day your luck will run out, Enjolras.” Javert warns.   

     “Sure it will.” Enjolras agrees from the hall, holding the door. “The only question is if it will before or after yours gets the best of you. Until then, I look forward to watching you stumble after us.” He salutes casually with two fingers before closing the door, the smile on his face falling when the dead bolt clicks in place.    

     Enjolras follows Courfeyrac out of the house, stepping over the dead bodies with less than a glance. Out of necessity, the sight stopped keeping them awake long ago. Outside the light shocks Enjolras’ eyes and it takes him a moment to adjust to the bright contrast from the dim library. Their black cadillac is waiting in the street, Bahorel smirking at them through the open window, his gun subtly resting on the sill. He pulls it back in at the leisurely escape the other two boys are making.   

     At the door, Enjolras pauses. He glances up to the library window where Javert is watching them. The steel grey eyes and the tight lipped smile are clear through the glass. Enjolras cocks his head slightly, eyes narrow as Javert makes a gun with his hand and slowly tilts it in a mock shot. There is no mistaking his target.    

     Enjolras gets into the car with no smirk, no confident display or cocky show. Javert had him this time and they both know it. He focuses his glare ahead, releasing a breath as Bahorel brings them away from the inspector. They turn a corner and the sudden explosion behind them shocks Enjolras out of his stoic, steady breathing.    

     “I blew up Javert’s truck.” Bahorel announces giddily.    

     The chief nods his head, then laughs. It’s quieted by the calculated way he’s running over the last half hour in his head but it’s enough to bring his attention to his friends. There is blood running down Bahorel’s shirt sleeve but he’s still driving without so much as a flinch, meaning it’s not much of a concern. Courfeyrac has dark bruises forming along his jaw and under his eye. If he decided on hand-to-hand, as he should have by making it his priority to stay unnoticed once Bahorel and Enjolras made themselves targets, there are more under his shirt. Making a note to check later, Enjolras looks down at his own hand.    

     “Here.” Courfeyrac tossing a torn piece of his shirt over Enjolras’ shoulder.    

     “Did you get the papers?”    

     “Of course I got the papers.” Courfeyrac tells him with a shake of his head that the blond misses. “Now go on and take care of that. You’re getting blood on the leather.”   

     It earns him an amused, grateful smile and Enjolras wraps up his hand, hiding the evidence of how fucking stupid that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gillenormand to Pontmercy

         Combeferre sits with Grantaire on the top steps of the porch, sweating in the direct sun. The brightness makes it difficult to read but he manages by bending over the book in his lap at an angle Joly would disapprove of. Despite the awkward curve in his spine, he finds it a rather comfortable position that leads him to feel as if he’s sinking into the pages, something he would never mind. Next to him, the artist sits with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, and both thumbs in his mouth as he absentmindedly chews his nails raw. The sun doesn’t seem to bother him. The only sweat is building on the back of his neck, plastering his curls to his skin. It’s the third summer in a row where the weather has been hotter than the norm and as best as they can predict, they’ll have a third winter with temperatures far colder than typical. They’re mostly used to it now, never quite complaining about the heat when they know they’ll be wishing for it in four months. Not as many people die in the heat as they do in the cold. That’s when they can complain.

     It would be nicer inside but not by much. They keep the windows open when ever the weather permits it and with Jehan, that means as long as it’s above freezing. Inside would only protect them from the brutal sun and Combeferre has been cooped up in the house for far too long so being outside isn’t completely unbearable. He doesn’t mind the heat nor the fact that he has a long list of things he has to do. Statistics to confirm, people to call and other people to find. Supply trains to track, budgets to balance, plans to distribute. Sister organizations to contact and a hit list to authenticate. That’s just his first page. His book, though, is one of the best he’s read in a long time because it’s mindless and it doesn’t let him focus on Cosette missing or Enjolras’ distraction and the new kid with the questionable last name. When he doesn’t think about it, the sun feels only warm not blistering. And if any of that didn’t justify his decision, sitting here with Grantaire means the world to Enjolras and that alone is enough to make both postponing his work and the slight sunburn he’s getting completely worth it. So Combeferre doesn’t mind sitting outside with Grantaire.    

     Still, he’s relieved when Éponine comes out with ice cold beers and it seems to snap Grantaire out of the focused glare he’s set on the gate after Enjolras left.    

     “You don’t have to sit out here with me, you know.” Grantaire says quietly after a long sip, almost like he’s embarrassed Combeferre is doing it in the first place.    

     “Of course I know. This is just a great excuse to avoid all my other responsibilities.” To prove his point, Combeferre drinks half his beer in one long swallow. It receives a chuckle from the artist and they fall into a familiar companionable silence.    

     From the glass door, Éponine watches, content that Grantaire is taken care of for the time being but somewhat jealous of the rapport the two have. It’s quiet and simple, a relationship that comes from nothing more than mutual love. Enjolras ties the two unlikely men together in a world where they'd never seek each other out. The cynic and the guide. The drunk and the philosopher. There is no purpose for one in the other, no desire, no need, and yet Enjolras is a strong enough force to intertwine their lives irreversibly.    

     Éponine forces herself to turn away from the strange friendship and take the opportunity of having no purpose of her own. It’s times like these she often finds herself alone, people out and people distracted, and she’s never quite minded before. But, lately, every time the cold feeling has hit her, the house seems to grow larger, quieter. It’s a loneliness that settles on top of her lungs, making it difficult to breath and where the deep sadness lasts mere seconds, the pressure takes days to fade. Still, she’ll take the opportunity because she doesn’t know why it happens nor what to do to fix it so she’ll do what she does best and that’s ignore the problem, if it’s a problem at all, and focus on something more productive.    

     And she knows the patterns of everyone in her life like they are sketched in to her skin and where Grantaire should have some form of control tonight, every passing day more and more will slip through his fingers. Every day Enjolras is gone he’ll start drinking a little earlier in the afternoon and he’ll have a few more glasses at dinner until he’s sleeping on the couch in Enjolras’ office because he can’t make it up the stairs and it’s where he will come first. That’s when Joly and Combeferre will start checking on him every hour and Éponine will start staying downstairs with him so when he wakes up in a panic, she can be right there. Tonight, he’ll end up in her room and she doesn’t mind because she won’t be alone then. Éponine’s sure if she had someone to worry about the way he worried about Enjolras, she would want to curl up with him at night because being alone and missing someone are almost as different as the cynic and the philosopher but there’s nothing quite as unwelcoming as waking up in an empty bed. Both she and Grantaire can attest to that.    

     Éponine goes directly to Enjolras’ office with every intention of exchanging the book she finished last night and picking up a new one for her brother. Sometimes she reads to Gavroche when he’s craving the closeness of a sister but those moments are few and far between. She has fifty more pages in that book but this way she’ll be prepared. He’s eight and has lived with everyone here for the past year. They all have become his family in a more literal way than anyone can claim because eventually he won’t know any different. This is his family, they are his family. Not just Éponine. There is nothing in her world that she is more grateful for than that because maybe he won’t get that cold feeling she gets on days like these.    

     The doors to the office are open, as they usually are and Éponine plans on finding something by Dante because Jehan’s suggestions are always reliable. For Gavroche it’ll be a Shakespearean comedy because the kid can already pick locks and jumpstart cars. She’ll keep him from the dark for as long as she can. Combeferre is reading outside and Enjolras is out on an assignment so the office should be empty but the new kid is scanning the shelves and it startles her. Éponine’s breath catches in her chest and she debates asking Jehan for his copy until she sees the amazement in his green eyes and the way his hand runs over the spines of the novels as if absorbing the magic that words hold. It makes her smile in a soft way she’s not used to and draws her closer.    

     She steps in quietly, unnoticed, and the kid has a lot to learn. Sneaking up behind him, she whispers in his ear, “Whatcha doing?”    

     At the question he jumps into the bookcase, knocking two books off, and she leans back to admire the curves of his cheek bones. “You scared me.” He laughs, blushing a little. It takes a minute for him to catch his breath. Éponine smirks, trying not to count the freckles across his nose. “I’m just looking at the books here.”    

     Éponine sits down on the couch closest to him, tossing her legs up onto the coffee table in what she hopes is a casual manner. The kid goes back to examining the books with the same light in his eye Jehan gets. She tilts her head, studying him. “You know, Enjolras wouldn’t take too kindly to a stranger snooping around in here.”    

     “Really?” He turns to face her, then scans the room as if Enjolras is standing behind her. “I didn’t know. The door was open. I’m sorry, I just assumed. I can leave.”    

     Éponine giggles as he rambles his apologies. “Relax. I’m just fucking with you. If there is something he didn’t want you to see, you’d never find it. He’s not the one you should be afraid of, anyway.” She adds with a shrug.    

     “Oh. Good, then.” He says dumbly, blush rising up his cheeks again and Éponine can’t help but smile. To her surprise it feels more endearing than a smirk. Marius runs a hand through his hair and Éponine wants to find out if it’s as soft as it looks. “Just curious, though, who should I be afraid of then?”    

     “Combeferre, clearly.” Éponine states, stretching back into the cushions. She catches the way Marius’ eyes watch her shirt rise before quickly looking away. Before she can decide if it’s a good thing or not, Marius turns back to the books.    

     “He doesn’t seem very scary.”    

     “That should’ve been your first clue.”    

     Marius turns around, thinks for a second before sighing exasperatedly and admitting, “I don’t know a whole lot about this kind of stuff.”    

     “What kind of stuff?” Éponine sits up eagerly as he sits on the coffee table across from her. He only waves a hand around them, implying all of this. “Like being a terrorist and all?”    

     He snorts out a laugh, awkward and embarrassed, and Éponine’s eyes light up to take in the sweet, honest expression it leaves on his face. “Yeah. Like being a terrorist and all.”    

     “Well it’s been two days. I’m surprised you haven’t gotten the hang of it yet,” shrugs Éponine and he looks at her, amused at her teasing. She bites back a smile and ignoring the voice in her head sending off the warning bells, focusing instead on the warmth rising in her chest. “So, Gillenormand. Some mighty deep pockets come with that name. Why run off to us?”    

     “I didn’t exactly run to you so much as stumble upon Bossuet.” He answers looking down at his hands in his lap. “I’m happy I did, though. I think.”    

     “Oh, well good. I think.”    

     He looks up to her, smiling as he studies her face. The warmth moves up her shoulders and around her neck, threatening her cheeks. “Speaking of Gillenormand, though. Would it be weird to ask to go by Pontmercy instead?”     

     “Why Pontmercy? I don’t recognize it.”     

     “Exactly. It was my father’s name.”    

     Éponine sits up straighter, suddenly suspicious. Tilting her head, she asks, “So who is Gillenormand then?”    

     “My grandfather.” Marius explains simply. If he catches on to the raised hair on the back of her neck, he doesn’t show it and if he misses it, he has a lot to learn. “He changed it back from Pontmercy when my mother died.”    

     It sounds sincere enough. Éponine relaxes a bit but doesn’t sink back into the cushions. “That seems like something a father should be in charge of. Not a grandpa.”    

     “Well, like you said the name comes with some pretty deep pockets. Threaten to take that away from your kid and suddenly changing a name doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”    

     “Your grandpa used your inheritance against your dad? That’s a bit rotten.”    

     “I get it, I guess.” Marius shrugs, looking away. “They were both just doing what they thought was best.”    

     “Perhaps. Doesn’t matter now, though, does it? You don’t have any money.”    

     He looks up at her, then laughs. “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t matter.” They fall into silence and Marius stands up to go back to searching through the books but he pauses and turns to her to ask, “So it’s not weird to go by Pontmercy?”    

     “Not at all. Believe me, I can understand wanting to separate yourself from family.” Éponine stands up to grab her book because she could use the distraction. “Plus, why do you think the boys only go by one name?” She adds causally, moving away from the boy with the sweet smile that makes her blush. You’re not supposed to get attached to strays.    

     Marius processes it with a slow gaze down to the floor before smiling. Here he can be whoever he wants to be. Here he can be anyone. A brave warrior for the rights of the people or a talented artist sneaking their works into rotation because it goes against the king. He can challenge the system, break the norm. He can make a difference. Marius Pontmercy can make a difference.  
    

  
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     Traffic is quickly growing more compact as the afternoon fades to evening. Each block they put between Javert and themselves takes longer and longer and it’s starting to make Bahorel anxious. Their route options are growing limited, their possible escapes more challenging. His eyes shift from car to car, hyper aware of anyone too close or behind them for too long. He’s not nervous. Bahorel doesn’t get nervous, but he gets antsy and he’s starting to get antsy now. Javert knows they’re in the city. Enjolras is bleeding. Cosette’s location is still unknown. His ability to be useful, to do his job and get them safely to where ever they need to be is growing more difficult with each passing minute.    

     He risks a glance to the blond, whose eyes are shifting from mirror to mirror, watching just as Bahorel is but with far more subtlety. His hand rests in his lap, wrapped loosely in the piece of Courfeyrac’s shirt and the white material is quickly turning red. There is a sluggish line of blood dripping down his cheek, his neck, darkening his own shirt where it quickly dries in the heat. Bahorel’s sure it matches the gash on his arm. In the rearview mirror Courfeyrac doesn’t look too worse for wear but every now and then Bahorel catches a hitched breath or a wince when they hit a bump. There’s at least one bruised rib.    

     The plan was to head north so Bahorel assumes that’s where he is supposed to direct the car. They have a safe house a few hours away and more than enough connections to rely on but Enjolras shifts in his seat, as if coming to a conclusion, and orders, “To the Musain, Bahorel. We'll stay there tonight.”    

     Grateful for something to focus on despite that being twenty more minutes in the car through this traffic, Bahorel turns the car around and back to the familiar café. In the back seats, Courfeyrac knits his brow and sits up a little straighter to look out the window. “I thought we were going north.”    

     “We were but now we are going to the Musain.” Enjolras says simply enough.    

     “But north was the plan, wasn’t it?”    

     “It was but it’s not now.”    

     “So what’s the plan now?”    

     “We'll stay there tonight. Bahorel needs stitches in his arm and you have a few bruised ribs that we need to check out.”    

     “You need stitches too.” Bahorel comments but he’s mostly ignored when Courfeyrac scoots up in his seat to stick his head between the two up front.    

     “We can do that at the safe house.”    

     “True.” Enjolras agrees with a short nod.    

     “So why the Musain?”    

     “I have other plans in the city.”    

     “Such as?”     

     Enjolras takes a measured breath. “I need to speak to Lamarque.”    

     Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “Lamarque?”    

     “Yes.”    

     “Lamarque.” He says again, as if testing the name on his tongue.    

     “Yes.”    

     “I’m sorry, did you say Lamarque?”    

     Enjolras twist in his seat to face the irishman with a glare, leaving Bahorel cringing as blood splatters a thin line across the sleek dash, following the movements of his hand. This car is too nice to be used for anything else but quiet missions, Bahorel decides. “Something on your mind, Courf?” He asks in words that don’t match the fight in his set jaw, bruised or not but Courfeyrac doesn’t flinch.    

     “Well, I just thought the plan was to go north, not talk to a general who disagrees morally with nearly ever decision we make.” Courfeyrac says slowly and dryly, pretending to work out his confusion. His brown eyes pinch in his bewilderment and he goes as far as to scratch his head. “The first plan was to hide out for a few days. Have a couple drinks, bond a little, maybe even sleep. But, no your plan sounds much better. Much more appealing. Very relaxing.”    

     “You and Bahorel can drink and bond and sleep all you please and Lamarque may disagree with our actions but he believes in our cause, Courfeyrac.” Enjolras counters steadily. “He has a lot of experience. He can help.”    

     “But will he?” Courfeyrac asks with raised eyebrows and a cocked head. “Really, will he? Because he hasn’t helped us yet and I can’t imagine the peacekeeper will be super excited to chat when you’re literally dripping blood everywhere.”    

     “It won't be bleeding tomorrow,” is Enjolras’ solution. He turns back in his seat to study the mirrors. His thumb absentmindedly running over the edge of the material around his hand.    

     “I like the first plan better,” says Courfeyrac as he sinks back in to his seat.    

     “Plans change Courf.”    

     “So let’s change your new plan.” He suggests hopefully yet dryly. Enjolras doesn’t respond. In the back, Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and his shoulders sag in a heavy, dramatic sigh of defeat. Any hope of Javert being the most exiting part of the trip flies out the window. “Well I’m not going to be the one to tell Ferre.” He mumbles. The only person who hates Enjolras’ faith in Lamarque more than Courfeyrac is Combeferre. Courfeyrac may piss and moan about it but he understands why Enjolras keeps going back and to him that’s somewhat justifiable but Combeferre sees too much of a risk to indulge Enjolras' optimism. Of the few things they clash over, Lamarque is the biggest.    

     “Perfect. You can stitch up Bahorel.” Enjolras decides with a nod that signifies the end of the conversation. Courfeyrac drops his head to the back of his seat and Bahorel’s eyes grow wide at the thought of having the irishman with a needle near him. The man is notorious for getting bored halfway through and turning a basic four inch gash into an art project, his lack of artistic talent be damned. He’s done nearly everything from a lightening bolt to a stick figure holding a balloon. Bahorel can only hope it doesn’t end up being a penis. Again.    

     They park in the back of the Musian, in the spot Madame Hucheloup keeps open for them. Normally, they would show no qualms about walking through the front door. It’s a well known establishment protected by the fierce loyalty of the locals. The building is in the heart of the worst slum in Paris, where everyone is poor and struggling and one day from death. Every roof leaks, every stomach growls, and every hand is dirty and calloused with nothing to show for it. No one, however, is afraid to walk at night. Cops don’t risk patrol and criminals don’t dare draw attention to themselves. Not in their neighborhood. Not in Enjolras’ neighborhood.    

     The three boys take the fire escape up to the back door of the upstairs barroom. A small cheer erupts at the sight of them but it’s restrained with the blood. Enjolras is quick to calm the concern, moving around the familiar room that is more like home to him than the manor. He shakes hands, pats backs, throws his head back in a hearty laugh. He charms, reassures, recruits all with half his face red and blood dripping from his hand. Courfeyrac and Bahorel occasionally watch in awe but are quick to grow distracted by their own drinks and one upping war stories with faces they haven’t seen in a few weeks. They spend less and less time in the Musain since moving to the house. Things were different when it was just the people living around them that they were fighting for.    

     An hour later Courfeyrac looks up from the very curvy, very distracting woman fawning over the bruises on his face. He’s happy to play the valiant warrior wounded by dark mysteries if that’s what she wants but he’s pulled to Enjolras in the corner. In his element. He watches the blond clasp a hand on a man’s shoulder, then lean over a map to point something out before furthering the discussion with excited, animated expressions. His blue eyes are alight, his chest heaving with the thrill of a developing notion, possibility, idea. Courfeyrac finds himself nostalgic for the times they sat here every night with pepper spray burns from protests, not knife wounds from the chief of police. He realizes he misses the light in Enjolras’ voice when he spoke of change and progress and the future and it all seemed so easy. When the blood didn’t drip from their hands because no matter how many times you wash them or how many days go by, once you take a life it bleeds in to your veins and follows you. Now it feels like a burden and Enjolras doesn’t smile and cheer as much. He works and plans and executes. He fights and kills and pushes the voice of _murderer_ away for progress, for the future, for the people.    

     The blond pats the man’s back and shakes his hand before excusing himself to head to the top floor. Courfeyrac stands up, kisses the very distracting woman on the cheek with a promise of _next time_ , and follows his friend to the apartment they used to share with Combeferre. It’s just the same as it was a few years ago outside of the sketch book and paints scattered across the three legged table under the window. Everyone is welcome to stay here as they were before but no one does anymore. Except Enjolras. This is his home, with the shitty stove that has to be lit manually from the back and shocks you if it goes lower than medium and the bathroom that has no hot water and a tub that leaks. Their beds are just mattresses tossed in to corners with sheets only because Combeferres’ mother is a godsend. Enjolras steps in to the room without hearing Courfeyrac coming up the stairs behind him. He takes a deep breath, one full of mold and termites and dust, and smiles. It’s a small, relieved smile laced with the warmth of being home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
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> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras sees blood, Feuilly ends up in Berlin, and Cosette takes a detour.

         Courfeyrac moves into the apartment, patting Enjolras on the back before heading to the dreadful stove. “I’m going to heat up some water. You look frightful, my friend.”   

     For a moment, Enjolras doesn’t move. He watches him dance about the kitchen, smiling dearly at the irishman. “It looks worse than it is.” He replies, after getting used to the warm feeling spreading across his chest.    

     “God I hope so,” calls the other boy from behind the stove before cursing under his breath at the same time the light in the kitchen flickers. Enjolras chuckles.    

     “I’m going to call Ferre. Don't burn the place down if you can.” Enjolras tells him as he moves toward the table but he pauses when his hand reaches into an empty pocket. After checking his other pockets, he curses himself and breathes through his nose to calm his rising heartbeat because he can feel the inspectors hand in his pocket. He’s not as smooth as they train to be. Despite knowing the answer, he asks anyway. “Courfeyrac do you have the phone?”   

     “Nope,” is the distracted response. The flame spits out over one of the burners and Courfeyrac’s head pops into view. He smiles triumphantly at it for a moment before looking to his friend. “Do you?”   

     “I did.” Enjolras blinks at him before taking a deep breath as his temper rises. “Fuck. Fuck!” He kicks a chair across the room then turns to Courfeyrac where he finished putting the water on just in time to see the chair go flying. “The fucking asshole pick-pocketed me! I should have killed him when I had the chance.”   

     Courfeyrac simply picks up the chair as if it’s a perfectly reasonable reaction and sets it by the table. It’s a bit of a dramatic response, even for Enjolras but Cosette is at risk and that makes everything more critical. “I’ll go get Madame Hucheloup’s phone to call Feuilly and let him know that number is out of service.”    

     “What if Feuilly’s with Cosette and he called? Javert could be on his way there now.”   

     “Feuilly’s smart. He'd react appropriately. If Cosette is in Berlin and if she is with Feuilly, he'll protect her. He’s more than capable and he’d have ten hours to distance himself from Javert.” Courfeyrac says confidently as he comes to stand in front of his friend. “You know this. It's why you sent him.”   

     It’s not the first time they’ve lost a phone and even with Cosette’s location a mystery, the fuming reaction doesn’t make complete sense until Enjolras looks away for a moment, running a hand through his hair, then turns to Courfeyrac with all anger lost, and says softly, “He had me, Courf.”   

     “No he didn’t.” His response is instant.   

     “Yes, he did.” He counters loudly. “He had me pinned.”   

     “It wouldn't be the first time you lost advantage in a fight.”   

     “He had the knife to my throat and he should have slit it right there.”   

     “But he didn’t.” Courfeyrac insists. “He didn’t, Enjolras, and in the end that's all that matters.”   

     Enjolras shakes his head, putting both hands on his hips as he starts to pace. His steps are slow and thoughtful. “Things are changing Courf. Things are getting serious which is great because we’re seeing progress but if we don’t keep up, if we can’t keep up,” he trails off, with a final shake of his head. Blond curls fall into his face, sticking to the slowly drying blood. His pacing halts to shoot Courfeyrac a wide-eyed, almost fearful look. “Next time he might not hesitate and what if it’s you he has pinned? Or Ferre? Or Jehan?”   

     “That’s why you want to see Lamarque,” concludes Courfeyrac with a short nod. The anger isn’t really about Cosette, influenced perhaps, but this is a concern that must have been building the last few weeks for him to be drawn back to the general and although Courfeyrac doesn’t know exactly what happened with Javert, it was enough to scare him and Enjolras doesn’t scare easily.   

     Enjolras looks away from him, then back to say, “He has the experience we lack.”   

     “Do you think he’ll help?”   

     “I think he can.”    

     “But will he?” Courfeyrac asks sincerely.

     He shrugs, looking away. “I think we need him to but I won’t know until I talk to him.”   

     Courfeyrac nods, studying the way Enjolras’ chest heaves slowly in the carefully measured breaths he’s forcing himself to take. He’s afraid and if it were for his own life, escaping Javert would be enough but Enjolras doesn’t worry about himself. Courfeyrac’s certain that the blond has gone through every scenario from every past assignment that has resulted in blood and bruises and _that was a close one_ to try and prevent them from ending the way it should have next time. From the kitchen the water can be heard simmering and that pulls him away from the concerns just before the realization of how close Enjolras himself came to being on the wrong end dawns on him. “Okay, well our deal still stands so you clean yourself up while I find a phone and Bahorel.” Courfeyrac says with a clap of his hands and a sure nod that brings an amused laugh to Enjolras’ lips. It almost sounds relieved. “I don’t know why you’re laughing,” says Courfeyrac as he strides out of the apartment, shaking his head like an unimpressed parent. “You have to tell Combeferre about Lamarque.”   

     As his footsteps echo down the stairs, Enjolras takes a deep breath and moves into the kitchen. He dips an old towel into the hot water, then brings it to the table to cool. He’s calmer now with the knowledge that he’s going to do something productive, going to do something that will protect his family and that his concern isn’t all in his head, something born from the fight with Javert that shouldn’t have ended in his favor. If Courfeyrac understands it, it’s real, because Courfeyrac understands everything in the way Combeferre sees everything. Enjolras sighs. It’s a strange sort of comfort to have confirmation that the danger is real. _Acknowledge the problem, find a solution_. He’ll protect them without losing all the progress they’ve made.   

     Looking down at the towel on the table, Enjolras endearingly shakes his head at the paints Grantaire left around. The fondness in his smile shifts to something more carnal at the memory of why Grantaire was too distracted to put them away properly. He reaches out to cap the green paint. They spent the night in the apartment weeks ago but knowing they are rather expensive and difficult to find, he still tries to save the acrylic. A quick squeeze tells him it’s still salvageable but also accomplishes spilling a sizable drop on the splintering wood table. Without thinking about it, Enjolras wipes the paint with his cut hand. He pauses, staring down at his palm where the red blood swirls in to the thick forest green paint. His breathing grows quicker. Slowly, he licks his bottom lip.    

     He sees Grantaire’s paint stained hands red and Jehan’s ink tinted fingers red. Enjolras grabs the towel and starts scrubbing his hand. He hears Joly’s frantic breathing and Éponine’s screams. Bahorel’s broken hands, Cosette’s cries, Bossuet’s last whimpers. The blood doesn’t fade nor does the paint and Enjolras stumbles to the kitchen and splashes water in rewetting the towel. The pot turns red, tinted green. Feuilly shouts and Musichetta’s pleads fill his ears. He feels Courfeyrac grip at his arm, flailing and failing for some tangible purchase. He sees Combeferre’s cold, blank stare. The water burns and still he sees his dead family.   

     Hands grab his, pulling them apart. Strong, familiar hands and he doesn’t realize tears have filled his eyes until he has to blink them away to see Courfeyrac’s face. His breathing is rapid, his teeth clenched. Courfeyrac pulls him close to press their foreheads together until Enjolras’ nods. It’s a slight, short movement of his head, barely noticeable, but Courfeyrac catches it, responding with an equally brief smile before leading Enjolras to a chair. The blond lets him, keeping his hands apart when Courfeyrac disappears to gather the very large, very handy first aid kit. There is a fleck of green still in the deepest cut across his palm. With a blunt nail, he absentmindedly scratches at the stark color until he hears Courfeyrac’s footsteps returning.    

     His friend pulls up a chair across from him and wordlessly takes his hands in his own. Enjolras looks around the room instead of studying the way his blood drips to the floor. On the couch, Bahorel presses a cloth to the gash on his arm but seems otherwise unharmed. It’s not the worst they’ve had. The sun begins to fade from the window, leaving the apartment in the dim light of dusk. Enjolras closes his eyes but opens them when he only sees his dead family lined up in the dirty street to be counted.   

     “I don’t think I can stitch this, E.” Courfeyrac says after several long minutes pass. It pulls Enjolras’ attention away from the dust floating in front of the thin curtains. His hand is much cleaner now and the depth of the gashes visible. The warm water stings and his hand shakes but from the pain, not his dead family, and for that he’s grateful.   

     “What?”   

     “This needs stitches but I don’t think I can do it.” He explains, his fingers gently pressing the area around the injuries. “I’m afraid of fucking up your flexibility.”   

     Enjolras shifts in his seat. Losing blood is nothing compared to compromised abilities. “Then leave it.”   

     “I have to do something. It’s bleeding a lot, E.”   

     “It won’t kill me. Just wrap it until it stops. I can wait until we get to Joly.” Enjolras says with steady confidence far from the fear that brought tears to his eyes moments ago. He needs to call Combeferre and connect with Feuilly. He needs to shower so he’s ready for Lamarque in the morning. He needs to find Cosette because she’s still missing. There are too many things he needs to do to worry about his friends. They knew coming in that this was not going to be a clean fight and Enjolras can’t linger on what may happen when that blood hits too close to home. He can only try his best to put himself between Javert and his family because he’s content, happy even, to martyr himself if it means others can live, if others will rise but he won’t let his poet be stained, his guide be broken, his cynic die for something he doesn’t even believe in. That’s not productive to progress. “I’m going to call Combeferre.”   

     Courfeyrac opens his mouth to argue, his hand tightening on Enjolras’ before deciding against whatever he was going to suggest instead. He wraps the cuts in thick gauze as tight as he can manage before handing him the phone. “It’s clean. I taught Madame Hucheloup how to loop the tracking system years ago.”   

     “Thank you. Does Bahorel need stitches?” Enjolras asks when he stands up. His hand is wrapped uncomfortably tight but he doesn’t let himself notice. At the same time Bahorel shouts no, Courfeyrac nods. “Take care of it?”   

     “Of course, chief.”     

     “And wrap your ribs, Courf.” Enjolras commands as he walks to the terrace, phone heavy in his hand. A slow breeze shifts the summer heat around in drifts of dry air and the rusted metal under his feet creaks familiarly. The phone rings twice before his best friends’ voice clicks through. The sound sends a balance through Enjolras. “Hey, Ferre.” He forces the sigh of relief from his voice.   

     “Hey E. How’d it go?”   

     “We got the papers and everyone’s fine.” Enjolras immediately updates before sighing. He can’t bite this one back. “Javert got there far quicker than we anticipated, though. Bahorel caught a bullet in the arm but it’s mostly a graze, nothing a few stitches can’t fix. I think Courfeyrac has a few bruised ribs. He’ll be out of commission for a a couple weeks but other than that he’s fine.” Enjolras informs. “We’re at the Musain now.”   

     “And you?”   

     The line goes quiet for a minute. “Is Grantaire there?”   

     “He’s upstairs, I think.” Combeferre tells him, feeling the slight waver of fear in his voice but grateful it doesn’t come across. “Do you want me to get him?”     

     “I fucked up, Ferre.” That means no.   

     “How so?” Combeferre asks calmly. If something was really wrong, something that would bring Enjolras to ask for Grantaire, Courfeyrac would be the one calling, Combeferre reminds himself. He moves to close the office doors.   

     “I did something stupid. Really fucking stupid and I promised him that I wouldn’t do something like that. I promised you that I would be smart.” As Enjolras admits it, the fear in his chest turns to guilt. 

     “What happened?”   

     “I let myself get locked in a room with Javert,” explains Enjolras almost casually.   

     Combeferre runs a hand over his eyes, forcing himself calm and praying the growing headache fades. “Okay. That is really fucking stupid. Why did you do that?”   

     “There was a window.” Enjolras says regrettably. “I assumed it was a way out but it ended up being farther away from the balcony. Too far to jump.”   

     “What were you hoping for?”    

     He shrugs, “To chat, I guess.”    

     “Still trying to get Javert to flip for us?” teases Combeferre with the slightest hint of scolding in his voice at Enjolras’ eternal optimism.    

     “I don’t know. Maybe.” He sounds agitated with himself. “But also to see what he knew. It was an opportunity. To see how close he was to Cosette and Valjean and you guys. He knows you, Ferre. Mentioned you. He knows Feuilly too but not his name, I don’t think.”     

     “So it was productive?”   

     “Not productive enough to be smart.”   

     “How bad south did it go?”   

     “I’m fine.” Enjolras looks down at his hand. Combeferre waits patiently, forcing him to continue. “But I almost wasn’t.”   

     “As long as you’re alright, that’s all that matters to me right now. Just get home safely. We can talk about it then.” Combeferre says and when Enjolras hesitates to agree, he sighs. “You're not coming home. What do you plan on doing?”     

     “I need to talk with Lamarque.”  
    

     “Enjolras, we-”   

     “I know! I know but it’s like you said the other day, we are showing more progress and with that more attention, more heat.” He says quickly in his need to explain before Combeferre says what Combeferre always says in this conversation. “We are handling things wrong, Ferre. Lamarque has been fighting for the people his entire life. He has the hindsight we need in order to avoid crumbling.”   

     “Lamarque is a pacifist. It never lends itself productive. Only dangerous.”   

     “He won’t let me get hurt.”   

     “No but you’ve killed before, Enjolras.” Combeferre says slowly in hopes of getting through his friends’ dense loyalty that hasn’t been reciprocated in ten years. “He’s not okay with that. He would have no ethical dilemma about putting you in jail.”   

     “He believes in what we’re doing. If he sees our progress he may-”   

     “He won’t.” Combeferre cuts him off with the cold truth they both know. Enjolras just continues to ignore it, believing that there is some magic number or time that Lamarque will finally come around and help them. “He doesn’t believe in how we do things, Enjolras. Just because he likes you, doesn’t mean he’ll save you. You know he doesn’t bend his morals for the results he wants.” There’s a pause where Combeferre waits for an argument but finds only Enjolras’ stubborn determination, hopeful faith. “Is it worth it? Is his advice worth the risk?”   

     “There’s no telling until-”   

     “There is!” He shouts. “You know what he’s going to say. He says the same god damn thing every time you do this.”   

     “Combeferre,” Enjolras pushes his hair off his face, forgetting about his hand, “he’s our only ally in the system.”   

     “He’s not our ally. He's just someone fighting the same cause.” Combeferre counters bitterly.   

     “How is that not an ally?”   

     “Because we are more than willing to sacrifice for the people.”   

     Enjolras ignores the shiver that hearing _sacrifice_ in his best friends’ voice sends down his back. “Lamarque has-”     

     “We murder, Enjolras.” Combeferre says dangerously calm, his frustration bubbling over to a rarely seen rage. Only partly directed at Enjolras but mostly at the man who continues to keep him on the line in hopes of saving him, of righting his ways and bringing him to his side, of paying some long dead debt. “We kill. We destroy lives. Lamarque has sacrificed a few friends but we have sacrificed clean hands. He will never support us. He will never encourage us. I don’t know what you are looking for in him but it’s not fair for you to keep trying and it’s not fair to him to keep asking.”   

     “I have to try,” admits Enjolras softly.   

     Combeferre closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. Maybe this will end with a trip to Valjeans’, where he should be going in the first place. “I know you do. At least take Courf with you? Have Bahorel stand guard but please let Courfeyrac sit in with you.”   

     “Yeah,” nods Enjolras. “Okay. Of course.”   

     “Thank you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Enjolras laughs lightly. “And Enjolras?”   

     “Yeah?”     

     “Be smart.”

     “Always.”  
    

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     He looks down at the box in disbelief. His last cigarette. His last fucking cigarette from the pack he picked up yesterday. Feuilly shakes his head in disappointment, cursing himself and the comfort he finds in the small rolls of tobacco. The throw to the trashcan misses and he rolls his head. It’s late in the evening and he doesn’t know Berlin well enough to know if he should be weary but he’s armed and when he had the calming cigarette behind his ear he felt confident enough. Now he feels almost as dirty as the city, which is probably more true than not, and this useless feeling washing over his fingers amplifies his uselessness to Cosette. There’s nothing here. Less, even, than there was at the train station. No Javert to evade, no undercover cops to sniff out. Only pigeons and homeless people. Not terribly different than Paris, actually, which only makes him a little homesick.   

     A cop passes him with a disinterested nod as Feuilly picks up his trash, then continues on his way in search for Cosette and a new pack of cigarettes. There is a store on the corner of the street that looks promising. He pushes the desire for someone with him away, as he had the entire ten hour drive and the six hours searching. He speaks german but he speaks german with a french accent and the questions he is asking aren’t the questions you want to ask with a french accent. If he were here with someone, he wouldn’t feel as vulnerable, as exposed. He stops, suddenly, realizing why Cosette could have run. There is a target on her back just as there certainly is on theirs. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you are doing, when the hair rises on the back of your neck you react. During an assignment, setting up your scope, dialing home. _Alone on a train_.   

     It’s not certain, as most things aren’t, but it makes sense to Feuilly. It’s why he passes the store without a glance to the many packs of cigarettes in the display and a large orange that looks simply divine. Hyper alert brings more caution than risk. There’s no other reasons, no other evidence for where Cosette is and why she didn’t get on the train.   

     Feuilly ducks into an alley and pulls out his phone. They have a friend who lives just outside of the city. She runs a division out here and is the connection between central Europe and the east and that is where he’ll stay tonight unless Enjolras orders him other wise. He could be wrong, as he has in the past once or twice, but he thinks Cosette is safe and Feuilly wouldn’t mind seeing his friend before heading up towards Russia. He doesn’t speak russian, so maybe he can convince her to come with him. The phone rings once, then dies in a dial tone and he ignores the way his heart slows down just a little, forcing deep breaths because it could mean nothing. A second and third call all ring through. If Enjolras has the phone, it could be forgotten in his pocket. The forth call is picked up but not answered. Feuilly hesitates, the hair on his neck rising.   

     He gives an address of a pizza place in Barcelona, making sure his polish accent is thick and rural, before hanging up. As inconspicuously as possible, he sprints to the Spree River a few blocks away and sinks down to the low banks. Trash litters the side of the river and he easily finds a cardboard box. After a quick restart that leaves the phone’s history clear, he places it on the folded cardboard and lets is drift downriver in the soft current. They keep their phones and as long as the codes are up to date, they can’t be traced automatically but if someone gains access to the phone, after answering a call for example, the location can be tracked down if they are diligent enough. Javert is diligent enough.   

     This will give him time to distance himself from the phone but it will be obvious to Javert, if that’s who has the phone, that it came from Berlin. As he watches the phone disappear, he wishes he believed in a god so he could pray Cosette isn’t here anymore.   

     Feuilly makes quick work of getting to the house as it is now a priority to contact Combeferre. The car he stole makes the travel time far quicker but he leaves it a few miles out and continues through the woods on foot. This house is a lot like their house but in the thicket of the German forest, surrounded by green where they have only a few trees clumped around the gate. He shakes hands with the boy at the front door, an eager, grateful welcome as he was once a stray that slept in the bedroom next to Feuilly’s. His friend turns a corner to investigate and smirks at Feuilly. She leans against a doorway with her hip cocked and her head tilted, an eyebrow quirked up in amusement above sharp eyes. The ginger pushes the familiarity to Éponine away because he doesn’t fuck where he sleeps. The one time he did, it ended up with his friend moving to Berlin on less than amiable terms. It turns out they are better at the one night _don’t talk_ kind of relationship.   

     “Well, Feuilly, you look good.” She says, pursing her lips ever so subtly. The hair on his neck still sits on high alert and it won’t let him notice it yet.   

     “You look like you fell in the river,” observes the kid next to him. He’s only as subtle as Bahorel.   

     “I did fall in to the river.” Feuilly responds as he moves in to the foyer. It’s darker than their home.    

     The girl shifts her hips slightly. “I guess that means you’re going to need a shower.”   

     It’s suggestive and playful and Feuilly kind of loves her for it but he doesn’t feel like smiling. Instead he walks towards her and says, “I need to call Combeferre.”   

     “Not Enjolras?” She straightens up.    

     “I tried that already.”   

     “This way.” She turns to lead him through the house. He lets his eyes travel down her back as she walks way, not swaying her hips suggestively but with purpose that makes him like her even more. The phone she hands him is almost identical to the one he sent down the river but in a different language. “It’s ringing.”   

     He puts the phone to his ear, watching her leave with a grateful smile. The doors close and he’s alone with the ring echoing in his ear. The other line answers and for a moment Feuilly’s greeting dies on his tongue before he guesses, “Puppy?”   

     “What? Oh.” The boy says and Feuilly can hear his sigh. “Yeah, I guess.”   

     “Where’s Combeferre?”   

     “I’m not sure but I can find him for you if you’d like?”   

     “No please, let’s take a moment to get to know each other.” Feuilly answers dryly with a roll of his neck.    

     On the line, the kid hesitates. “Really?”   

     “No, not really.” Feuilly snaps. “Go fucking find Combeferre.”   

     “Yes! Of course. Finding him now.” Through the phone, Feuilly can hear the kid talking to Combeferre and surely he has a lot to learn. No one answers Combeferre’s phone. It’s almost as dangerous as drinking Grantaire’s wine or messing with Jehan’s garden.   

     “Hello?”   

     “The kid has a lot to learn,” is Feuilly’s greeting.   

     “If he survives tonight, Bahorel is going to have a field day with him.” Combeferre laughs. “So what’s going on with your end?”   

     “I tried calling Enjolras earlier but I think someone else picked up his phone.”   

     “Javert.”   

     “Javert?” Feuilly asks as he sits down on the plush couch, flailing a little awkwardly when he sinks in too far.   

     “Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel went to distract Javert away from chasing Cosette down. The inspector must of had scouts in the area because he got there much faster than we anticipated he would.”   

     “Are they alright?”   

     “Cuts and bruises, is all.” Combeferre reassures. Feuilly thinks he sounds tired.   

     “Okay, good. I sent my phone down the Spree just in case. It should put some distance between us, then. Maybe even further distract Javert.”   

     “That’s smart, Feuilly. Any word on Cosette?”   

     “I don't know, man.” He runs a hand through his hair, knocking off the cap he’s still wearing. “Honestly? I don't think she's in the city anymore. I think she left yesterday towards Paris, just not on the train. For whatever reason, I think she got spooked.”   

     There is a moment where they both grow quiet. “I agree. We know for certain she was at least in Berlin so we will shift our focus. Come back home and we’ll reassess.”   

     “Is it alright if I leave tomorrow? I'm at Madalaine’s house now outside of Berlin. I can stay here tonight and leave early in the morning.” There is a goofy smile on his face and the heat of blush replacing the fear on his neck.   

     “Of course.” Combeferre says and Feuilly can hear him smirking and shaking his head. Of course Combeferre sees the motivation for staying is far different than a good nights rest. “Take your time and be smart.”   

     “Thanks Combeferre.”   

     “Keep in touch,” is his usual ending command.   

     “Of course.” Feuilly hangs up. He takes a moment to allow the full relief that almost everyone is safe. _Almost everyone_. Cosette is still missing, but believed safe for the moment. They’ll believe that until they see her dead body and even then Enjolras may not believe it. The phone rests heavily in his hand before he sighs deeply and stands up to find Madalaine waiting for him outside.  

     “All’s well?” She asks, noting the easy posture, naturally steady breathing of the man different than the tense and hyper alert solider that arrived.   

     Feuilly nods. “As far as I know right now.”   

     “Good.”   

     “Still offering that shower?” He quirks an eyebrow. From under her dark eye lashes, she smirks. Her hand is soft in his but strong as she leads him upstairs.

  
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     The nuns are too nice to her and for that, Cosette can’t complain about the little pit stop in Bruges. Not when they feed her and bathe her and include her in their little chats even though she doesn’t understand what they’re saying. She laughs when they laugh and it all feels natural. Cosette doesn’t speak italian and they only speak italian, so the only thing she can do is laugh when they laugh. Sometimes she talks to them, responding to questions with answers that mean nothing more than kind politeness. The nuns don’t know anything outside of italian but they know _Paris_. Every so often, she gets lonely, nostalgic, antsy to get home and glances at her watch and a woman will turn to her and hold her hand, promising _Paris_. Cosette always squeezes their hands and smiles, forgetting about the arduous journey, the certain fear and concern in her family, the danger still lingering. If only for a moment. He father is going to love to hear about them.   

     The detour caused Cosette to stress at first but the town is small and peaceful, seemingly untouched by the drought, the hunger, the oppression. If they ever need a place to hide, they should come here she thinks. Although she can’t imagine the kind of trouble they’d be sure to find. She walks around the streets with the nuns, straying every so often when a particularly adorable shop sparks her curiosity or a sweet smelling bakery stirs her stomach. It makes her feel like a child and she doesn’t mind. The one thing she won’t be when she gets home is a child and the one thing she won’t feel is peaceful, so she takes the opportunity and revels in it, letting the nuns buy her doughy treats and skipping with children by the river, all the while trying to ignore how the weight of the knife in her backpack feels like the physical manifestation of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly comes back to Paris, Marius learns the house, and Enjolras meets with the General.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split up a bit more, let me know if it's weird to read! I appreciated the advice!!!

         The early morning sun doesn’t creep through the windows the way it does back home but the weight on his chest makes up for the lack of light. There’s something eerie about the German forest, something that seems fitting for a terrorist safe house. Their manor seems more like a vacation home than the headquarters for _Les Amis de l’ABC_ until you look past the poet’s garden and the artists sketches to find the hoards of weapons and the war marked map. They are kids stumbling through the summer until you see the passion, the scars, the blood stained hands. Once you see that, you see the threat. You see the future.    

     Feuilly runs a hand over the dark hair splayed across his chest, feeling the night slip through his fingers and the urge to go home. He breaks the silence, talking for the first time since he hung up the phone that didn’t consist of something along the lines of _oh god yes_. “I’m impressed with what you’ve done here.”   

     “Really?” She asks, twisting to look up at him. It doesn’t surprise him that she’s wide awake at five o’clock in the morning.   

     “Yeah. It’s efficient, productive, and well managed all without losing the closeness it started with.” Feuilly says, waving a hand around the room to emphasis his point. He says it because it means so much more than _damn you’re good in bed_. She knows she’s good in bed. “Enjolras would be proud.”   

     She blushes, burying her face into his chest and he can feel her grin against his skin. Les Amis aren’t the biggest organization and they aren’t the strongest but they are the loudest, the most productive. Most houses have nearly twice as many members but they don’t have the triumvirate and that leadership is what sets them apart. Any fool can attack the government. It takes something else to change it.    

     The girl on top of him bites playfully, lazily at his skin in the early morning. It’s nice here. Different. He doesn’t feel like a stranger nor a solider. He’s a visitor. Welcomed and enjoyed. It sits in his bones contently but his six hours of fun are over. Cosette is still missing. She is still priority number one, despite how soft Madalaine’s skin is or how good she smells, like coconuts and sex and maybe even gunpowder. She must know this and because she’s a good solider, she pushes herself off the bed after a quick, nearly chaste kiss on the lips, so they both can get dressed. Their silence is comfortable, understood, and they don't exchange much outside of _you can take this car_ and _thanks, that was fun_. He breaks a rule of his, though, and before stepping in the car he pulls her back for one long last kiss. It leaves them both breathless, coy as they part and smiling dumbly as they turn away from each other. It’s a kiss full of realization and grief, knowing that if they were their own priorities, there could have been a relationship. Something sweet and endearing and worth decades of quiet living.   

     In the car, Feuilly cringes and forces himself to focus on neither the tender touches from the morning nor the rough scratches from the night before. He is a solider on assignment. Cosette is missing, that’s his priority. He’s not sweet, he’s not endearing. He’s a trained killer, a focused threat. He points the car to Paris, lights a cigarette from the pack he lifted off of Madalaine, and focuses on getting home.   

     He stops once in Cologne to call Combeferre with an update. Enjolras is meeting with contacts in the city, asking around for Cosette as inconspicuously as he can while Musichetta calls a few contacts in Russia to see if her plans changed from day one. Nothing’s been heard, nothing learned. Nothing’s changed. So he buys a second pack of cigarettes and starts driving again. As it seems appropriate for their family, nothing exciting happens until he’s ten miles away from home.

  
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     It wasn’t the first time Marius found himself lost in the house but it is the first time he didn’t tremble in fear at ever corner he turned. He can get from his bedroom to the kitchen successfully and he can navigate the few rooms on the first floor. His excruciatingly limited knowledge of his new home, his new roommates, his new life should be worrisome. Marius is a stranger sleeping, eating, living next to terrorists with a chip on their shoulders carved by his relatives yet they are nothing but kind. Friendly, even. He doesn’t know if that should be alarming or not but it’s easier to sleep at night thinking they are as good as he wants them to be.    

     His fear may have faded with their kindness but his worry continues to distract him. They do kill people, no matter how young or friendly they are. With every turn he makes around a blind corner, he half expects to run in to someone. For them to wrap one hand around his neck and bury a knife in his gut with the other, whispering _vive la republique_. So far though, he's only bumped in to Bossuet who apologizes with that good natured laugh of his and moves on. It’s almost enough to forget the murder and terror they happily claim responsibility for.

     As far as Marius knows, only Bossuet and Courfeyrac know about his bag full of wealth sitting under his bed and even then they probably don't know what's in it exactly. Unless they looked. They sneak in to the best protected government buildings and around the most secure private homes so they could have very well gone through his one bag of personal items without Marius knowing. If they have, they don't seem to care because everything is still there and no one mentions it.    

     Today is the first time he's risking venturing outside of the three rooms he knows he's allowed in because his fear no longer weighs heavy in his feet and now curiosity leads his steps. No one has warned him about straying, no one seems to be paying much attention to him other than the _how are ya pup_ that always feels like honest curiosity. When Courfeyrac left, he felt forgotten and at first the disinterest was welcomed, giving him the confidence of invisibility. Éponine is the only one to show him any attention and it’s usually quick, teasing conversations before she disappears for hours at a time. Jehan is often around, writing where Marius reads, but their conversations are quiet and simple. He has a feeling the man’s words mean more than what he takes them for but Marius has never been a profound thinker and takes them for what they are at first glance.   

     Marius always finds someone up for a small chat in the kitchen or the living room. No one asks him intense questions like,  _what are your plans_ or  _what's a five_ _year plan look like for you?_ He's starting to wonder what his place is here. In the other rooms, they come and go with an unknown purpose, sometimes on the phone or flipping through papers. He’s learned that the living room and kitchen are safe places, their work doesn’t bleed through the friendly space but it sits thick in all the other rooms. When Musichetta is on the phone, he sprints the other way because nothing frightens him more then her foreign shouts and he knows he has not place in asking. The office is quieter and would be Marius’ favorite room but Combeferre is almost always there, on the phone or working at the desk. Grantaire is sometimes there with him, huddled in the corner with a large sketchbook or snoring softly on a couch. After Éponines’ casually warning about fearing Combeferre and Marius' already decided mistrust of Grantaire, he tends to avoid that room.    

     He intends to explore the last room on the first floor that he has yet to peruse through. It’s a simple room, set between the foyer and the office. Marius hasn’t been in there since he passed through it to meet Enjolras and to his delightful surprise, most of the walls are covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves stocked full of titles he has yet to read or even heard of before. The only spaces not covered in priceless literature are the two windows and a map hanging on the wall between them. There are several round tables centered around the map. It feels darker, the air heavier here. Marius studies the small red marks over the country lines, the little notes, the statistics, and the color coordinated pushpins along various streets. Around the large map are several smaller, hand drawn copies. Each focusing on a different region, with different statistics and different notes.    

     A shout from the front of the room causes him to jump, feeling caught red handed. The doctor, _Joly_ , Marius reminds himself, stalks in to the room, then through it without a second glance at Marius. “Combeferre!” He shouts again. “Combeferre, I need you to look at my tonsils. I think the left one is inflamed.”   

     Marius follows him to the door, peaking around the frame to see Combeferre walking to meet his friend. He’s on the phone, nodding and humming placidly. Joly stands in front of him, mouth open around his mumbled words of concern until Combeferre places a hand on his back and leads him to the room Marius is in without a word of explanation. The boy stumbles backwards, realizing he was hiding and _spying_ and aims for casually looking over the books when they walk in. The doctor waits patiently, studying Combeferre with only one quick, fleeting glance to Marius. Combeferre pulls out a book without having to search for it and presses the phone against his chest asking, “Can you walk someone through an amputation?”   

     “Sure.” Joly says simply, sitting down at the table and opening the book. He takes the phone. “Oh, hello Benoît. Are you cutting off a leg or an arm today?”   

     Marius gasps. The casualness of his tone sends shivers down his spine and the kind smile Combeferre flashes him on his way out does nothing to settle his nerves because he had patted Joly’s back with an easy, _let me know how it goes_. He returns to the office and Marius runs out towards the foyer as Joly starts listing off the arteries that need to be avoided. The house seems smaller, the rooms closing in on him and Marius does the only thing he can think of doing. He steps out of the front door on to the porch, sucking in the fresh, dry air.    

     It’s empty and he wishes he had brought a book because he wouldn’t mind getting lost in the pages for a while if he could. The words may help push the visions of blood and butcher knives out of his mind. Instead, he moves forward in to the sun. Somehow it seems hotter today than it has been all summer and maybe that’s because he knows _someone is chopping off a limb_. He walks aimlessly, straight down the gravel path until he reaches the gate. There is no one here either and Marius is struck with how easy it would be to walk away. His hands linger on the warm wrought iron designs but just thinking about it brings a cold feeling of loneliness and he’s too scared to push it open. Marius moves along the wall instead, running a hand over the coarse brick wall as he circles the property dreamily.

  
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     Slamming on his brakes probably wasn’t the best response possible but it was his first instinct. Blame it on sleep deprivation or a worried mind. Shock, perhaps, because the last thing he expected to see was the little swaying hips and the soft blond curls walking down the street towards their house. Dust floods the air around the car, enveloping the girl in a musky cloud. He parked the car a few yards ahead of her and runs in to the stirred earth. As fast as he slammed on the brakes, he skids to a halt, his feet slipping in the gravel as he pulls back a few steps.  

     He almost laughs at the sight, the petite, almost dainty girl wielding a knife in the way she must have learned from watching Enjolras and Courfeyrac train through out the years. But it is still a blade and she is still pointing it at him so his amusement will have to be pushed aside for caution.    

     “Woah! Woah, Cosette! Hey it’s me. It’s Feuilly.” He’s shouts, standing defensively with his arms raised out in front of him. The dust sinks back to the ground and recognition slowly crosses her face before she squeals, then runs towards him for a hug. The ginger keeps his hands out, backing up quickly. “Put the knife away first. Please?”   

     She stops and stares dumbly at the blade in her hand, glistening in the caught summer sun. When she looks back up to Feuilly, she giggles. Quickly, she sheathes it and tosses it into her backpack. She doesn’t need it now. Not with her family. Cosette runs full speed at Feuilly, jumping in to his arms for a hug. She kisses his cheek, smells his hair, laughs through the tears of relief as he swings her around.

  
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     Time passes slowly and the sun is kept from his skin by the tall wall. So caught up in his thoughts of his father and what he might do tomorrow, in a week, in a year, that Marius doesn’t hear the kids until the come in sight. In the shade of a few tall trees, Bossuet and the kid wrestle while Jehan and Grantaire watch. The closer Marius gets, the faster his happy smile fades because this is not the fun and games kind of wrestling. This is planned, focused, and contained to a large circle marked out in the dry grass. Grantaire is leaning against one of the trees, sketching madly as he tries to catch the right line before the kid flips or Bossuet rolls. Jehan is standing, hands on his hips and eyes narrow.   

     “Use your left, Gav. Your left hand.” He instructs, turning to give Marius a warm smile before looking back to the kid with another instruction. Marius steps next to the poet and gasps when he sees Gavroche’s small fingers wrap around a knife. Bossuet has him mostly pinned, massive arms around his narrow shoulders, pressed against his chest but the boy still manages to grab the handle of the blade. “Your left, Gav!”    

     The kid tries to swing the blade back towards Bossuet but he rolls and manages to keep one arm around the kids shoulders and grab his right wrist, squeezing until the boy drops the knife with a strangled cry. Bossuet lets go of him and scoots back to catch his breath. He smiles as Gavroche jumps to his feet, grabs the knife, and faces him in a defensive stance.

     “Again!” The kid shouts, anger flashing in his eyes.    

     “No. Get some water, first.” Jehan orders and Marius expects a rebuttal but the boy simply drops his shoulders and shuffles off to sit next to Grantaire. The artist playfully bumps his shoulder, quietly explaining that Bossuet knows he’s left handed and will continue to force him to use his right until he either learns to free his other hand or becomes equally strong with both hands. Marius doesn’t miss the soft, inquisitive, _E can use both hands, can’t he_ , from the kid.    

     “Marius, what are you up to today?” Jehan asks with a gentle smile. It’s hard to believe he was just instructing to an eight year old which hand to grab a knife with. It effectively brings his attention away from the two by the tree.   

     “Ready to learn some tricks of your own?” Bossuet pats him on the back in between long sips of water.    

     Marius’ mouth opens but no answer follows because the fear has gripped him cold. He’s never so much as pushed a jumping dog away and if he learns something does that make him indebted to them? Does that seal his time here, his inevitable death by the National Guard? Because what else does this life lead to. Does this make Enjolras his _chief_ and the manor his home?    

     His answer sits on his tongue, unknown to all of them, and the silence is saved by a long honk of a car horn. Bossuet takes off first, followed by Grantaire while Jehan leads Gavroche inside. Marius doesn’t hesitate to run after the first two boys with no other reason than curiosity. His fear is forgotten and he doesn’t realize what he could be running towards until later that night when he’s lying in bed, wide awake with the rushing adrenaline.

  
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     “Nuns? Really?” He asks a second time, fingers loose on the steering well as he steals another glance to the occupied passengers seat.   

     “The more you think about it, though, it kind of makes sense.” Cosette says. She sits turned in her seat to face him. Her smile has yet to fade and her feet twitch under her in excitement.   

     “Yeah,” he nods, then laughs. “Yeah, I guess it does. Fucking nuns, man.”  

     “I had them drop me off on the opposite side of the city and just walked here. Figured it was the safest to put as much distance between you all and strangers. Nuns or not.” Aiming for casual _terrorist talk_ , she’s almost disappointed when it sounds smug and prideful but the wide grin Feuilly sends her way fills her chest with warmth and it’s enough to let her indulge. “So how is everyone? Mostly unscathed, I hope.”   

     "Mostly." The red headed man nods with a small laugh. He's as giddy as she is, just better at containing the excitement. “E, Courf, and Bahorel are doing business in the city but they should be back in a day or so. Maybe even tonight. Combeferre will know more details.” Before Cosette can open her mouth to ask questions or register that Enjolras isn't home, he adds, “Oh and we have a stray at the house. He seems harmless but a heads up.”   

     She nods, hoping for that sage, understanding way Combeferre has of doing when he learns a new detail or statistic. She still feels young doing it, feels wrong. There’s no telling what she’ll be good at, what she’ll offer for her family but she’s not wise. She can’t plan like Combeferre does, can’t lead like Enjolras. Maybe she’ll be sneaky like Courfeyrac or understand explosives like Bahorel. Perhaps Bossuet’s finding and tracking skills are more her speed, Joly’s doctoring, Éponine’s thievery. Maybe she’ll be a sharpshooter like Jehan or Feuilly. Cosette turns to the driver, to her friend. The boy is smiling softly, watching the road carefully. Maybe she’ll just cook for them, cut their hair and make sure they sleep enough. Maybe she’ll make tea and organize the books and make sure they pick up their guns when they aren’t using them.    

     Running from the National Guard and outsmarting Javert sounds exciting. It sounds dangerous and fun and taking care of the home, of her family, _well_ , that sounds right. She only thought of that possibility when she was close to sleep on her way home but that’s only because the other side is scary, dangerous, and unknown, she tells herself. She came here for excitement, not taking care of the kids like she took care of her father. Cosette has never stayed with them long enough to find a place outside of that role. Now is different. Now she’s home. She’ll learn what she’s good at and she’ll learn how to be productive. She’ll listen to her family and learn how to find bad guys and save the world. She’ll kill. _She’ll kill?_

     The car turns in to the drive way and Cosette tells herself that doesn’t matter right now because she’s home. Feuilly lays on the horn and by the time they pull up to the house Grantaire, Combeferre, and Bossuet are standing outside, waiting for her. Another boy stands just behind them but she pays no attention to him. Cosette jumps out of the car before it stops moving and runs up for hugs and kisses and she laughs through the same tears that fell when she finally saw Feuilly.   

     Marius watches quietly, smiling at the warm scene. They were giving him time to adjust, he realizes. Time that was better dedicated to Cosette than to making him feel warm and welcomed and when Marius sees her, it all makes sense. Without a word shared, he already knows he’d do anything for her.

  
    ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     “You can’t be here, Enjolras.” The old man snaps, moving to close his windows and the thick curtains. It drops the room into dark shadows and Courfeyrac immediately reaches for the gun on his hip. The lamp is barely enough to illuminate their faces but it’s enough to allow Courfeyrac to breath a little easier until the man flicks on the light. He’s never met Lamarque but he knows he doesn’t like him. He ignores the twitch of his trigger finger, knowing how easy it would to put a bullet in the back of his skull and simply walk away. For now.

     “Doesn’t want to be associated with terrorists,” Enjolras scoffs teasingly, shaking his head and smiling as he sits down in the chair across from the desk. Cosette is safe and focus is back to saving the winter. His priorities shift easily. “That’s an outrageous request to ask for, Monsieur. Who wouldn’t want to be associated with dashing young men such as ourselves? It could only do an old man like you a favor.”   

     Lamarque smiles despite himself. He sits down, forcing himself to look away from the boy until his scold returns. Courfeyrac stays behind Enjolras protectively until his friend nods in the direction of the chair next to him. They’re quiet, Lamarque leaning back in his seat as he studies the visible bruises and scratches, the wrapped but still bleeding hand on the boy. His examining gaze lingers on Courfeyrac for only a few seconds before he turns back to Enjolras. It’s clear Courfeyrac is only here for Enjolras. “How's Combeferre?”   

     “He's concerned.”   

     “As he should be.” Lamarque agrees quickly. “What about this time? Me or whatever got you those cuts?”   

     “You. And Javert. The state of the royal theatre.” Enjolras says simply. It's disconcerting how easily words fall off his tongue. “Poor soil predictions and the disappearing of some moth or another.” He shrugs, adding, “Ferre worries.”   

     “Well there is only one of those that I have control over.”   

     “I was hoping we'd get to talk about moths today,” says Courfeyrac with a sober expression. It earns him a somewhat bemused glance from Lamarque but a chuckle from Enjolras.    

     “This is Courfeyrac.” Enjolras introduces his friend with a proud half-smile.    

     The old man looks the boy up and down but turns back to Enjolras. “Why is Combeferre concerned about me this time?”   

     “He thinks you’ll have me arrested.”   

     Lamarque adjusts in his seat with a sigh. “I won’t.”    

     “Because it would bring too many questions.” Courfeyrac says. They both look to him. Lamarque with raised eyebrows, as if surprised he's not a silent partner but Courfeyrac only cares about Enjolras' slightly parted lips and widen eyes at the blunt, suggestive tone he used. For some blinding reason, Enjolras continues to ignore the fact that Lamarque not only can’t help them but refuses to out of personal preservation. There’s a reason Combeferre wanted Courfeyrac here. He’ll poke through every illusion Enjolras has built up around the man. Every time Enjolras tries to search for a future promise and Lamarque offers him just a little bit of hope, Courfeyrac will snap it in half. “Why would a terrorist be caught at your house? The king would use any excuse to attach you to us since you’re the last person we’d go after.”   

     “Easy solution to getting rid of you,” adds Enjolras, not letting his tone change as he catches on to the reality of the lack of progress this meeting will bring. He’s not dumb, just optimistic and it makes Courfeyrac’s chest constrict at the thought that it’s his job to make something Enjolras already knows painfully obvious in order to force him to let go of someone he’s always wanted to count on.   

     Enjolras is a natural leader, but he’s also only twenty-four. He shouldn’t have to always lead, to be responsible. Courfeyrac studies his friends’ profile, realizing, not for the first time, that the weight of any murder, any death, any pain and misery they bring upon people and that falls upon them sits heavier on Enjolras’ tongue than anyone else’s shoulders. Whether justified or not, that’s a burden no one deserves to carry at twenty-four years old. He doesn’t blame him for seeking a mentor to follow, a father figure to reassure him his way is the right way and that the blood, the pain, and the risk is all making a difference.   

     “I can’t be associated with you lot.” Lamarque says and it brings Courfeyrac’s gaze back up. He continues, his tone disapproving. “Murder and bombs aren’t good for public opinions and public opinion is the only thing allowing me to get work done.”   

     “Your name helps,” retorts Enjolras coldly.   

     “Your name could have helped.” The old man raises his eyebrows.   

     “And be content to see a two percent rise in literacy?” His question is low, a clear challenge. Enjolras scoots up in his chair to rest his arms on the desk. In his own seat, Courfeyrac leans back and sets Lamarque with a glare.    

     “Two precent in a year is-”     

     “Don’t take me for a fool, Monsieur. You know the timeframe I’m speaking of.”   

     “Enjolras, you have always been a fool.” Lamarque says sadly. “It’s something that terrified your father. I’m sure he predicted this happening.” He adds with a wave over Enjolras’ bruised face. Courfeyrac taps his trigger finger against the arm of the chair.    

     “My father never had the courage to change things. Neither do you.”   

     “Your father did what he could with what he had.”   

     “No, he did what he could without losing what he had. And it’s exactly what you are doing. Just enough to please your conscious so you can sleep comfortably.” Enjolras spits, suddenly disgusted. “Heaven forbid your full belly twists at the thought of the homeless children at your door and the starving farmers around the corner.”   

     “That’s not fair,” Lamarque says and Courfeyrac is surprised to see he actually looks hurt by the accusation.   

     Enjolras leans back in his chair. “Notice he said it’s not fair instead of correcting me.” He tells Courfeyrac in a low voice. His friend nods but doesn’t say anything.   

     Lamarques’ eyes narrow and for the first time Courfeyrac can see the general in the man. “What are you doing here, Enjolras?”   

     Enjolras shakes his head minutely, looking away. “I don’t know.” He admits and he sounds petulant, young almost.   

     “Do you need money?” He asks, sounding sincere. “Somewhere to hide?”   

     “No.” Enjolras stands up suddenly. He paces the length of the room, breathing through his nose before his eyes fall to the books on the shelves. He studies the titles, regaining his control and reassessing what he’s doing. Courfeyrac sets Lamarque with another glare, angry that he can’t see exactly what Enjolras is looking for. He doesn’t need Lamarque to join them, just a supportive word or a comforting smile. A pat on the fucking back would do. “I don’t know why I keep coming here.” It’s quiet, a confession more to himself than the room but Lamarque shifts in his chair at the words, as if he wants to stand up and hug him but his forced cold distance keeps him in his seat. Courfeyracs’ stare grows more heated.   

     “I want to help, Enjolras. I do but my way of helping isn’t something you want.”   

     “Then not only is it unproductive to be here,” decides Enjolras, “but it’s not smart.” He pulls out a book, opening the cover, blue eyes flickering across the words. Courfeyrac watches him, then Lamarque who looks troubled by the path of the conversation. Enjolras puts the book back and selects another one.    

     “Enjolras, I just want you to be safe.”   

     “I haven’t been safe since I was twelve.” He says causally, like Lamarque should have known that. Before the general can respond, the blond holds up the book in his hand. He hesitates, caught up studying the soft features, the familiar face, the distress around the gentle eyes. The last connection to his father. It’s not Lamarque he should have seen, Enjolras realizes. Distractedly he tells the man, “I’m keeping this.”   

     “Of course,” Lamarque nods. Courfeyrac squints his eyes in confusion. Their relationship is easy to understand but turbulent from the contrasting definitions of honor and morals. It’s difficult to follow which side they’ll come from, the old family tie or the political foil. “Take whatever interests you.”   

     “It’s for Ferre.” Enjolras states absentmindedly. “Courf, we should go.”   

     “Let Maria fix up your hand before you leave.” Lamarque says standing up. When Enjolras declines, the old man steps forward with quicker strides than he looks capable of. Courfeyrac steps in front of him, cutting off his path to Enjolras, a hand on his gun. He knows Lamarque has no intention of harming Enjolras, most likely the opposite in fact, but Courfeyrac will gladly seize any opportunity to show his disapproval of the man. He looks at the man, challenging the speed of his hand. The old general growls. “Call off your guard dog, Enjolras.”    

     “He’s not my guard dog. He’s a lieutenant.” Enjolras corrects with a slight warning bite to his words, not telling Courfeyrac to stand down. “We are leaving anyway.”   

     “Enjolras,” Lamarque calls. It’s as close to pleading as he’d get. The blond pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder. In a last ditch effort, feeling the relationship slip between his fingers, he asks, “What would your father think?”   

     “Well, Monsieur. My father’s dead so it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” Enjolras adds his half-smirk but it’s laced with bitter reality before leaving, the book tucked under his arm to sweeten the apology he owes Combeferre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette's home, Éponine and Grantaire share a moment, and Enjolras stalls.

         Marius knows he’s staring, but he can’t bring himself to care. The woman is sitting in front of the garden, flowering trees and colorful bushes framing her romantically, her hair falling behind her shoulders and shifting in the slight wind. Her eyes are big and wide, bright in the summer sun and glassy in her giddy happiness. The tears threaten but never fall. She studies the faces of her friends the same way he studies hers. It feels creepy, obsessive, and right. She feels right, they feel right. Next to him, her hand in his. She’s not next to him but everyone else might as well be miles away. He hears every word she shares, every lyrical ring of her voice, each sweet laugh. If she didn’t glance over to him and smile, he would force himself to look away but she does, often, and the slightest red blush spreads across her porcelain cheeks when he smiles back.   

     “How was Russia?” Jehan is asking from his lucky seat next to her. “Learn anything exciting?”   

     “I learned that school isn’t exciting.” Cosette says with a laugh and Marius’ heart quickens almost painfully. “Not as exciting as I was hoping, at least.”   

     “Are you looking for something more exciting?” Combeferre questions, tilting his head in a meaningful way that Marius misses.   

     Turning to him, Cosette sets her jaw. Marius blinks at the sudden similarity to Enjolras. Her skin is paler, her hair blonder, her eyes lighter but the shades don’t matter. They could be twins. “If I weren’t, I would have stayed in Russia.”   

     “How exciting exactly?”   

     She shrugs. “As exciting as it gets.”   

     “Have you talked to E about this?”   

     “Of course not.” Cosette says and her strength escapes her with those words. Her eyes falter, flickering to her lap before finding Combeferre again, then speaking softer. “I didn’t think he’d want me to come if he knew.”   

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” chides Jehan. She looks up at him with a small smile.   

     “I don’t think he’s slept since you decided to come home.” Feuilly says, his thumb nail breaking through the last resistance where he was steadily peeling off the label on his beer bottle. Once it’s off cleanly, he starts folding it in to a small, bent swan. “He’s running on coffee and excitement.”   

     She laughs softly, blushing at the notion. Not quite believing it but knowing it’s true, Cosette’s gaze flickers across the faces around her all as happy and relieved to see her as she is to  be home. She hesitates on Combeferre’s face, a curious, almost amused thought directed at her through his glasses. It forces her breath to deepen in an attempt to ease her growing nerves, how ridiculous they may be. Enjolras isn’t going to send her away. He isn’t going to yell at her, tell her no, demand she stay safe and protected and carefully watched over like a small child. It goes against everything he lives for but it doesn’t mean he won’t lose sleep worrying over her, stress about her decision, twitch his mouth in that disappointed way he has of doing when he’s trying not to let the emotion show.   

     “He won’t like it at first.” Combeferre leans back in his seat, setting her with an entertained little grin, as if he can see her spiraling fear. “But give him the right reasons and he can’t say no. Then he’ll be proud of you.”   

     It’s as reassuring as he can be. It leaves Marius anxious for her at the prospect of having to convince the chief of something he’s not happy with but Cosette seems to relax with the words and when she shifts her gaze to him, his nerves light on fire. She leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees and her eyes narrow, tilted up in a smirk. “Well, Marius, why are you here?”   

     He takes a moment to catch his breath, never tearing his eyes away from hers, before answering with the only thing that feels as right as her hand would in his, the only thing he knows she’s looking for. “To make a difference.” He says it like there is no other answer and suddenly he feels his fate sealed. It’s not as frightening with his name on her lips.   

     “Thank you, Marius Pontmercy.” Her grin grows and she smiles at him for several heartbeats before looking back to Combeferre. The man gives her a short, slow nod, with an entertained smile. How his family can be so clever and so clueless at the same time never ceases to amuse him. She leans back in her chair with a satisfied grin. “How can anyone say no to that?”   

     “I’d like to see Enjolras try.” Combeferre agrees. He only turns his head slightly to the side to see Éponine make a discrete exit back in to the house. It’s odd but he doesn’t follow her to question it. Grantaire watches the hazel eyes behind the round glasses following Éponine’s steps, then studies the way Marius hangs on to every word of Cosette’s daring story home. The thrill and relief of Cosette’s safe return fades, leaving his chest hollow, yearning for Enjolras. He hasn’t had enough to drink and his fingers itch, whether for his pens, a drink, or Enjolras he can’t ever be sure. All of his vices bleed in to each other. Eventually he stands up and leaves, searching for which ever one is closer. 

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     He can count how many times he’s flipped through the dossier by the bloody fingerprints on each page. There is no level of tightness he can get the bandage on his hand to stop the blood from seeping through. It runs down his arm, drips on to the wooden table, smears across the papers around him. Knowing it’s not life-threatening only makes it more irritating. Courfeyrac stares at it like a lion does his prey but Enjolras ignores him, for as long as he can, before glaring at his friend when the concern grows obnoxious beyond his ability to let it pass. The irishman grins at him as if he’s accomplished something.    

     “What?” Enjolras asks, straightening a little as he realizes he’s been slowly bending over the table in either exhaustion or despair. The pen in his hand pauses on a sharp _7_ in the corner of the paper. His friend looks entertained, as if Enjolras is a delightful show. He never understands the amusement in his lines and Courfeyrac rarely shares.   

     “Nothing,” is all Courfeyrac says but it is attached to a small laugh. Enjolras rolls his eyes, mumbling a soft _bullshit_ in his friend’s direction, then turns back to his work. “It’s just that we’re at the Musain.”   

     Enjolras drops his pen with an annoyed sigh and runs his hand through his hair. He leans back in the rickety chair but straightens up again when the wood creaks threateningly and turns to his friend. Courfeyrac looks all to comfortable, feet on the coffee table and arms across his chest. Despite the visible bruises on his face, he looks relaxed enough to be on vacation and only the narrow gaze he sets on his friend shows his concern. “Are we getting to a bigger point or simply stating facts? Because I can do that too, you know. You’re a bad liar and you’re hair looks funny today.”   

     Courfeyrac chuckles around a wince from the jolt of his ribs as he slowly stands up, then crosses the room to sit opposite of Enjolras. “I’m a fabulous liar and my hair looks like this on purpose.”   

     “And what purpose is that?”   

     “It looks good.”   

     “You’re just proving that you’re a bad liar.” An easy smile spreads across his face as Courfeyrac ducks his head in a warm laugh. It fades, though, when he looks up rather seriously to Enjolras. A nervous weight settles in his chest, anticipation of a lecture or a disagreement where he’s bound to be proven wrong because he knows he’s doing something wrong when Courfeyrac or Combeferre look at him like that. Courfeyrac’s face remains casual, amused still, but Enjolras can feel the focused glare on his own. He tries to shift it, smile maybe or just soften his gaze, and yet he fails. If it bothers Courfeyrac, he doesn’t show it.   

     “We’re still at the Musain.”   

     “We’ve already established that.”   

     “Well, E, I’m a bit confused as to why we are still at the Musain when Cosette is surely itching to see you. Home is less than an hour away and yet, here we are. Not at home. With Cosette. And nice beds and warm showers.”   

     Enjolras takes a deep breath, dropping his gaze to the paper under his hands. “I need to focus on this right now. Just until I figure out how we’re going to respond. I’m at the Musain because there are fewer distractions then there are at home. At least, I thought there were.” He adds with a look to Courfeyrac.

     “Where I have no problem being called a distraction, I sure as hell don’t think Cosette would take it very lightly.”   

     “I won’t be much longer.” Enjolras says in hopes of ending the conversation. “You and Bahorel are more than welcome to go home now, if that is what this is about, Courf.”   

     “Bahorel is happily drinking his way through the bar downstairs. You know that’s not what this is about.” There’s a shift in his voice that forces Enjolras’ to straighten his shoulders, narrow his eyes. “When are you going to go home?”   

     “I won’t be much longer.”   

     “Yeah you say that but with you that never has a real timeline. It varies from a few hours to several days. Which most of us wouldn’t classify as _not much longer_ anyway. Who are you avoiding?”   

     “I’m not avoiding anyone.” It’s mostly true and he can convince himself his focus is better set here. It would be nice to finally see Cosette safe and sound, to be held by Grantaire, to be in that simply _easier to breath kind of air_ he always finds in Combeferre’s presence but here, he can feel the city under his toes. He can see the starving, hear their prayers. He’s slept on these streets, starved on these streets. This is the worst place he could find himself, the most dangerous, in the heart of Paris and the heart of Javert’s hunting ground, and yet he feels at ease. The manor is safer and larger but here he is home. He is supposed to be here, not in a safe, large manor with plenty of beds and fresh food. The only thing keeping him there is his family.   

     “Combeferre makes the most sense because he didn’t want you to go see Lamarque.” Courfeyrac continues, simply ignoring his friend. “Grantaire’s going to be angry about how close it was with Javert and Joly’s going to rip you a new one about leaving that hand unattended to.”   

     “I need to focus on this, Courfeyrac. This,” he pushes the papers across the table, “this is going to starve the people.”   

     Courfeyrac studies his face, seeing the determination in those blue eyes overrides his curious concern as to why they didn’t rush right home. Instead he sighs, giving his friend a look that says they aren’t done discussing this, then starts scanning through the papers. His heart sinks as he reads through the production predictions and the planned distributions, doing the quick math in his head and realizing Enjolras is right. He’s not surprised, Enjolras is nearly always right or at least close. He looks up to his friend, tapping his fingers on the papers and says the only thing he can think to say. “Fuck.”   

     Enjolras nods fervently. “Cosette is safe. Combeferre and Grantaire are safe. Right now,” he points to the dossier, “there are people who are marked for death and there is something I can do. I just have to figure out what that is.”   

     His friend is leaning on the table, eyes set alight with passion and Courfeyrac feels it curl his toes and quicken his breath in excitement. Courfeyrac nods, pushing half the papers back and picking up the pen. “Rewrap your hand and start at the beginning.”

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     His hands are full, so he uses the bottom of the wine bottle in his right hand to knock. He kicks the door open anyway. It’s bright in the room but stuffy with all the windows closed. Grantaire likes this room, it’s simple and clean. Her dresser drawers are closed, her books are neatly stacked, her favorite weapons are kept cleaned and out of sight. It’s different than his room. Enjolras is a messy roommate, often thoughtless with the false security behind the closed door. Not completely blameless, Grantaire tends to hoard paints and brushes, canvases and sketchbooks. They stack high in the corners, under the bed, behind their dresser. Éponine’s room is neat, though. Neat and big, nearly always empty. There are a lot of people downstairs. A lot of people he loves but the only one he wants to see isn’t there and Éponine is the next best thing.   

     Lying on the bed, she has her feet on the wall above her headboard, her book held over her head. When he pushes the door open, she leans her head back to see who it is.   

     “Your love in my art can be measured by the footprints on it.” Grantaire says with a smile. The sketches on her walls are complete, colored, and as flawless as Grantaire is willing to admit even though he’d never admit it because he doesn’t like his art. He’ll still find himself in here to adjust a shadow or add a stronger outline but he doesn’t have the urge to cover it up with flat bushes or lazy clouds. These walls are different than his too. He likes them but he loves the walls in his bedroom because Enjolras loves them. Enjolras promised to never sleep in that room again if he paints over the penciled sketch of the Parisian skyline or if he adjusts the shape of the horrible Mount Olympus in the corner he painted after Enjolras was away from home far too many days.   

     “And many of them, there are.” Éponine rolls on to her stomach and saves the page in her book before tossing it aside. She gratefully accepts her bottle of wine as Grantaire offers it. He doesn’t sit down right away. Instead, he wanders from window to window, running his thumb along the edge of the wine label. In the garden below, Cosette can be seen sitting among most everyone else. The top of her blond hair shifts in a laugh. Bahorel’s laugh follows and it can just barely be heard though the thick glass.   

     When he does sit down it’s against the headboard and she’s quick to flip around the bed to sit next to him. Their shoulders rest comfortably next to each other in a familiar weight. The sounds of their slowly disappearing wine fill the silence. They don’t speak until both bottles are under the label.   

     “Explain to me, my dear Éponine, why you have the windows closed.” Grantaire says, playfully bumping shoulders.   

     “Allergies,” she says simply.   

     “Well that’s bullshit.”

     “You’re bullshit.” Éponine snaps and they fall silent again until half the wine is gone. Grantaire is patient, waiting for Éponine to decide when she’s ready to explain. Eventually, she quietly admits, “I think I like Marius.”   

     Grantaire nods for a few seconds before sighing. “That’s dumb, my dear.”   

     “Why?”   

     “Because Marius is dumb.”   

     “Marius isn’t dumb.” 

     “No, he’s not.” Grantaire agrees before turning to kiss her forehead. “He’s not smart enough for you, though, because he’s clearly falling for Cosette.”   

     She shrugs, leaning heavier against Grantaire. “Maybe.”   

     “Feuilly’s smart enough. Combeferre, too.” Grantaire continues.   

     “Combeferre, really?” She repeats doubtfully. “So I should like him just because he’s smart?”   

     “You should like them because they are the only ones who come close to deserving you.”   

     “You’re one to talk.”   

     The artist straightens up to look at her. “What does that mean?”   

     “You deserve better than Enjolras.”   

     “I think you have that flipped.” He mumbles, falling back against the headboard and taking a long sip of wine.    

     “No. He loves you, I don’t doubt that but he’s a murderous rabble rouser convinced that destroying an entire nation will help rebuild a better one. You deserve to sit above that.”   

     They grow quiet again and Grantaire finishes his bottle. “He says that all the time.”   

     “That he’s murderous or about destroying a nation?”   

     “What? No. That I deserve better.” He can see the way Enjolras looks at him when he says it, like he’s trying to convince Grantaire, like he’s saying it out loud as the revelation hits him sharper than a physical blow.   

     “Well I didn’t say he’s dumb.”   

     Grantaire snorts out a laugh, leaning back against her soft brown hair. She finishes her bottle and they both end up in the trash can with the others from later nights. Éponine pulls herself into a ball, curling in to him more. His strong arm wraps around her shoulders, bringing her closer. “You believe in him, though. Don’t you?”   

     “When he talks about how progress can make the future better?” She can feel him nod above her as he sinks lower on to the bed, his arms tightening around her. “Not a doubt in my mind.”

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     Courfeyrac’s hand cramps but he pushes on to finish Enjolras’ latest thought. When he looks up, massaging the inside of his palm with his thumb, Enjolras isn’t looking at him any more. It’s the first time in the last hour that Enjolras hasn’t moved right through the thought and on to a new assessment, a possible solution, a vague idea that means much more to the blond than Courfeyrac would ever really know unless it grows in to an action. He had started sitting down, leaning over the table to watch Courfeyrac’s steady hand echo his words, but was quick to rise to his feet and pace the length of the apartment as the fire pulsed through him. His hands ran through his hair as his frustration grew stronger, streaking the blond red, and turning to Courfeyrac when the irishman offered his own opinions or challenged his suggested plans with bright eyes and a quirk of his lips in that smirk he gets when he sees the possibilities dance before his vision.    

     Now he’s quiet, staring out the window from where he’s sitting across Courfeyrac again. The night is closing in but the streets are still full, busy and active. His blue eyes have softened as he follows the people passing their building. Courfeyrac picks at the forgotten food between them, happily allowing Enjolras the pensive moment. The blond sighs a measured breath, then turns to his friend with resolution in his eyes. “We’ll go home in an hour?”   

     “Yeah?” Courfeyrac asks, raising his eyebrows. It’s not what he had expected Enjolras to say. He picks up the pen to continue the work despite the growing fatigue in his shoulders, assuming Enjolras will want to work through that time, but Enjolras stands up and starts stacking the papers.   

     “If we wait too long it’ll be too late. We don’t want to draw more attention to ourselves than we already do. Javert’s sure to have look outs in the city on high alert.” Enjolras responds, suddenly sounding distracted. With the papers as neatly stacked as he can manage, all bent with wrinkles and blood, he glances around the apartment. “Keep an eye on Bahorel? He shouldn’t hit anyone with his injured arm.”   

     “Are you going to stay up here?” Courfeyrac asks, standing up as Enjolras puts the paper in to his beat-up bag, then changes his mind and gives them to Courfeyrac. He’s hoping the blond will sleep or just sit and read, relax in which ever way he can manage but if he’s going to work, Courfeyrac will stay with him.    

     “I’m going to go for a walk,” responds Enjolras and Courfeyrac sighs because he should be more careful with what he wishes for. It's not the manor with the distractions, but the Musain, as she sits in the middle of Paris herself, the very thing Enjolras lives and fights for.   

     “A walk where?”    

     Enjolras waves his hand vaguely towards the window as he bends to tie his boots. “Around, Courf. I’ll be fine.”   

     “Didn’t you just say Javert’s men will be on high alert?”   

     “Yes but this is our neighborhood. They don’t come around here.”   

     “When we were living here and active, I would agree, but we haven’t made our presence known in months. This might have been our neighborhood but we don't have the upper hand anymore. The Musain is safe because if it weren't there are enough people to let us know, but fifteen blocks away? Ten blocks? There's no telling. Javert could have easily planted eyes when our sights were elsewhere.” Courfeyrac’s words are a little more rushed then he thought they would be but Enjolras is pulling on a cap and rewrapping his hand, throwing his bag over his neck. It’s not enough to convince Javert he’s a simple peasant but Enjolras isn't thinking of disguising himself. He wears the same things he did when he slept on these streets, looking only a little better fed. Courfeyrac doesn't like it. “Enjolras, this isn't the same city as it was when we were living here.”   

     The blond snaps his head in Courfeyrac's direction, eyes narrow and challenging. “This is not Javert's city. I can walk the streets if I want.”   

     “You're clearly allowed to, you know that's not what I'm saying. Javert had sights in the streets yesterday. He's going to be looking here because he knows we're still in Paris and he's not going to stay behind an invisible territory line you've drawn in the dust out of respect. He doesn't operate like that. Neither do you.”   

     Enjolras walks past him, patting his arm on his way. “I'll be fine, Courf.”   

     The irishman shakes his head, following Enjolras down the stairs. The back room of the Musain is growing rowdy as the sun sinks, Bahorel right in the middle, and he doesn't notice the two boys leaving. Courfeyrac stays on the fire escape, watching Enjolras walk down to the fire escape. He tries to ignore the carefully restrained bounce in his friends’ step, the way his chest heaves in grateful breaths, the blond's relaxed face. If he can ignore it, maybe he can think of a better argument to get through to Enjolras, get him to understand the very real danger but he can't, not when he knows exactly how Enjolras feels and not when he understands exactly what Enjolras is doing. Javert took something from him, shook his core, and he's not one to hope it back. He's going to grab it.    

     He's braver than Courfeyrac, who's more content to sit somewhat safely in the Musain with cold drinks and good friends than venturing outside. He loves Paris, loves France and all of her people but there was a time when that was all Enjolras had. It's something different to the chief and whether Courfeyrac likes it or not, he understands it. He shouts one last time to be smart, chuckling and shaking his head when Enjolras turns around and blows him a dramatic kiss. He watches Enjolras disappear down an alley, looking like a young vagabond, before sighing in defeat and turning to get a drink.    

     When out of sight, Enjolras tugs on his cap and, for the first time in a long time, walks without a purpose. He turns left down one block, then right after a few more. He wanders through one curving street, then circles around another. There's a destination, one he's unaware of but his feet lead him there easily, naturally, thoughtlessly. He ends up in the Luxembourg Gardens and smiles, sighs even, feeling the knot in his shoulders fade and the crinkle in his brow ease.    

     He sits on an empty bench, the fence behind him and the trees shading him. The ground still smells burnt from the sun, the flowers wilting in the heat, the fountain low enough to trick the eye as empty until a closer look but children chase each other and dogs bark. Mothers gossip and old couples pass the time in silence. Here the city is alive, something more than just surviving and it's almost as good as listening to Grantaire's chest. He sits back on the bench, sinking in to the familiarity of the much loved city, the memory of his time here with his own parents, chasing friends and laughing in that careless way children do no matter what is in their bellies.   

     On the pathway in front of his bench, a uniformed solider of the National Guard makes his way casually towards Enjolras on his patrol. The blond watches him, but doesn't leave. He takes a bite of the apple he picked up on the way here. The man is older, decades under his belt. His gaze passes over Enjolras, then snaps back in recognition, sharing a look with the boy for several long seconds before turning to the other side of the gardens where other soldiers walk. Enjolras takes a bite of his apple. When the guard comes closer, his pace the same casual surveillance, he crosses his ankle over his knee, the blade of his knife pressing comfortably against his skin. He takes another bite. The man cocks his head towards Enjolras, slowing his step, but only looking up to the boy after he whispers, _Vive la Republique_.    

     Enjolras nods, smiling softly at the risky support, and finishes his apple before going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long time between postings! I have a much better idea where it's going now, so I should be able to post more frequently.

         Despite how much he tried, he couldn’t prevent getting blood on her. She didn’t seem to mind, as her arms clung around his neck like he’d drift away if she let go and for a long time, he didn’t notice anything else but her. Just her being there, safe in his arms. Just Cosette, here with him and with his family, safe. It was only a glance over her shoulder from where his arms were tightly wrapped around her waist, because she might drift away if he let go, that reminded him. His hand was still bleeding but Courfeyrac had double, then triple wrapped it. For the entire ride home, it stayed that stark white color, he glared at it as if he could scare it in to stopping, but now the red catches his eye in the porch light. He doesn’t care if he’s bleeding. He does, however, care that there is blood on Cosette. Blood doesn’t belong on Cosette. She should never be spotted red or suffocate on the smell of iron. She shouldn’t wince in pain, tremble in fear, shouldn’t worry herself into shock. Her cries fill his ears over her soft, excited words. He pulls back sharply, as if he’s the problem, and brings his hand to his chest to protect her from it.   

     Cosette flinches at the sudden end of the hug, stumbling a step forward, but her smile doesn’t fade. He studies her face at a distance, not realizing he’s grown quiet and severe until he looks away, and he only looks away when he’s confirmed she isn’t bleeding, she isn’t hurt and crying and forces himself to take a deep breath. By the door, Combeferre stands next to Grantaire, the artist leaning against the wall in a forced kind of calm. He grinds his teeth to keep from running to Enjolras and interrupting his time with Cosette. Enjolras looks up to him, taking a deep breath of relief. He wants to fall in to Grantaire’s arms, to lie in their bed, under his steady heartbeat. Cosette takes his hand in hers, breaking the longing stare, and brings it back to the crude wrapping quickly turning red. She lifts up the cloth carefully, trying to see how bad it is before Courfeyrac squeezes Enjolras’ shoulder and says, “Joly’s going to lecture you.”   

     “It’s not that bad.” Enjolras defends, but Cosette only lifts her eyebrow in doubt. “He needs to look at you first.”   

     “I have a few bruised ribs. You, my friend, are still getting blood everywhere. Take care of that and I'll get Bahorel out of the car.” He grins at Enjolras until the blond looks away, shaking his head and chuckling. After a gentle hug to Cosette, because his ribs are maybe a little more than bruised, he turns to Combeferre. “I think I’m going to need your help.”   

     The two walk out towards the garage, leaving Enjolras under Cosette and Joly’s careful scrutinization. Combeferre glances over his shoulder to see Grantaire trailing behind them as they head inside, then stops walking when the door shuts. He takes Courfeyrac’s face in his hands, tilting it this way and that to examine the bruises. The irishman lets him, smirking when Combeferre drops his face and declares, “You should be fine.”   

     “Oh, good. I was worried.”    

     “The sarcasm is unnecessary.”   

     “As unnecessary as that examination?” Courfeyrac asks with a laugh. Combeferre sets him with a look so he adds, “You know I’d tell you if something felt wrong.” 

    They walk in companionable silence until they get to the garage where Combeferre stops again. He puts his hands in his pockets, glancing back at the house with a sigh. “How was the meeting with Lamarque?” He asks, looking back to his friend.   

     “I don’t like that guy.”    

     “I don’t either.”   

     “But I get why he does.” Courfeyrac says, leaning a little forward when Combeferre rolls his eyes. “It makes sense, though, doesn’t it? He’s looking for confirmation. You know what we mean to him. He just wants to know he’s doing the right thing when he sends us out.”   

     “He should have gone to Valjean.”   

     “Where I agree, it makes sense that he didn’t think of him. Valjean isn’t active. He doesn’t put his neck on the line for the people.”   

     “Neither does Lamarque.”   

     “Yes he does.” Courfeyrac says with an exasperated sigh. “He’s just a lot quieter than us.”   

     Combeferre looks away, then down to the dead grass between them. “Then why go to him? Enjolras has never been quiet. He has to know that Lamarque is going to shake his head and look down on him.”   

     “It’s not the killing that Enjolras has a problem with.”   

     “It’s the dying.” Combeferre says quietly, biting his bottom lip.   

     “It’s us dying.”   

     “We can’t accomplish anything if we worry about that. Statistically, it’s inevitable.” He tells his friend, his voice tired and heavy. “Enjolras knows this.”   

     “So it makes sense he wants to hear his way is the right way.” Courfeyrac starts walking again, leaving Combeferre to glance back at the house for a long minute before following him. They both see the battle of us or the people clear in Enjolras’ eyes. They both see the grateful little smiles restrained by the sight of blood and the sound of death. It’s an ongoing conflict between Enjolras and Combeferre, who has to continue to keep the chief from running every assignment because he’s content dying but he’s not okay living with his family dying. “We’ll figure it out.” Courfeyrac tells his friend, pausing with his hand on the car door. “He’ll figure it out.”   

     “Or it’ll destroy him.”   

     “We’ll keep that from happening.” He promises, opening the door. The garage is suddenly filled with Bahorel’s snoring and Combeferre snorts out a laugh at the bulk of muscles and scars snuggled on the car floor before moving to help pull him out. It isn’t until they get to the porch when Bahorel is awake enough to help with little steps from where he's supported between the two boys, the exhaustion and whiskey quickly catching up to him. He mumbles a quiet, pleased greeting to Combeferre but says nothing more until he's dropped on a couch in the living room.    

     “Did E come with us?” He asks, closing his eyes and pulling the back cushion closer to curl around.    

     “Yep. Joly’s checking on his hand now.” Courfeyrac informs, pulling his friends boots off.    

     “Lucky bastard. I should've waited too.”    

     “Did Courf stitch you up?” The man nods, turning farther in to the couch with a muffled  _dick_. Combeferre can't tell if he's calling Courfeyrac a dick or that's what he now has on his arm under the white bandage but either way he sends a disapproving look to his friend, who's laughing proudly. “We should have never taught you how to thread a needle.”   

     “Oh come on, Ferre. You know I’d never do it if it was serious.”   

     “Anything that requires stitches is serious.” He says as he turns to leave the room because his amused smile is about to betray his scowl. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes before following him to the office, leaving Bahorel’s soft snores in exchange for frustrated voices. On the couch, Cosette is sitting next to Enjolras, where his hand has been stolen by Joly. Grantaire isn’t to be seen but certainly he’s around, listening in but staying out of sight in that frightening mercenary way he has of doing.   

     “You should have come home instead of letting it fester.” Joly bites off the last word, glancing up to make sure Enjolras sees his sharp scold.    

     “It didn't fester, Jol.”   

     “Four days without being taken care of in a piss poor excuse of a bandage? That's festering, Enjolras.” The doctor examines it, bringing the hand close to his face and not caring that he forces Enjolras to lean forward with the sudden movement.   

     “I cleaned it.” He tries to both defend himself and calm his ever cautious friend.     

     “Looks more like you scrubbed it.”   

     “I had to get all the green stuff out.” He smirks, knowing just how it sounds. Joly stares at him for a long minute before dropping his focus back to the cut, mumbling something like  _worse fucking patient_  and grabbing the alcohol. There is no sound from Enjolras as the burning disinfectant is dabbed at the injury but his smile fades a little until Combeferre joins Joly on the coffee table and Courfeyrac falls in to an arm chair. In the rather dark room, Courfeyrac and Enjolras give Combeferre a quick rundown of the last few days, then listen to Cosette’s trip from Russia. Combeferre grins, knowing she keeps her voice softer, her action scenes quieter to make it seem less exciting than how she explained it earlier. Certainly it’s for Enjolras’ comfort. Now it’s a trip, before it was an escape.   

     There's a soft hum from Joly, bringing Enjolras' attention down where Joly is stretching and folding his hand with a narrow, studious look. “I don't want it stitched if it's going to fuck up my flexibility.”   

     “It needs to be stitched.” Joly tells him with his serious I'm the doctor tone.    

     “Not if it's going to-”   

     “I'll take care of it.” He says suddenly very stern, staring at Enjolras. “I promise.”   

     The blond nods, not reluctantly because he trusts Joly and Joly knows exactly what Enjolras needs to be capable of. As the stitches add up, he watches carefully and tries not to focus on the obvious pull of the thread, forcing his hand to curl in despite Enjolras’ attempt to keep it flat. He trusts Joly, though, so when it’s cleaned, stitched, and wrapped, he happily ignores it.   

     “I’ll check it tomorrow. Until then, don’t do anything that would fuck it up, okay?” Joly says with a fond smile.   

     “I’ll do what I can, Joly.” He grins, letting the doctor pat his cheek like one would a small child, then turns to Cosette when the other’s leave, grateful for the time he’s been given with her.

  
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     Enjolras’ head is heavy in her shoulder, but warm and missed and adorable in his sleep. She cards her fingers through the long curls that she plans on trimming tomorrow. She’ll have to confirm with Grantaire, first though, that it’s okay to cut it. The artist is not one to cross, especially when it comes to his Apollo. The sound of Combeferres’ chuckles pulls Cosette up from her book and her hand stills in the blond hair. She smiles up at her friend and puts the book down on the coffee table, welcoming him to join her. “Hey Combeferre.”   

     “I thought that’s what happened.” He nods to the sleeping Enjolras with an affectionate smile. With a heavy sigh, he settles himself into the arm chair next to the couch. “He started a fire?”   

     Cosette shakes her head and giggles. “He knows I love fires but I guess he didn’t take in to account that it’s the middle of summer.”   

     “I’m sure the fact that you love them outweighed the heat.”    

     “He’s an idiot, but a sweet one.” She sighs with an amused smile. Her hand resumes scratching through his hair and he makes a humming sound in his sleep, moving into her touch. “He is a bit warm, though.”   

     “Feverish or just sweaty?”   

     “Just sweaty, I think.”   

     “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the roaring fire three feet away in the dead of summer.”   

     “No, not at all. That can’t be it.” She laughs. Picking up a handful of his curls and letting them fall through her fingers, she jokes, “Or the mop he’s sporting.”    

     “I warned him that was the first thing on your To Do list.”   

     “The first of many.” They both smile, then turn their attention to Enjolras’ relaxed face, content and young. It’s a companionable silence, one that the two have always found together. Minutes go by, the only sounds in the room being the cackle of the fire and the occasional mumble from Enjolras’ sleep. They’re incoherent yet gentle words, too deep to be anything other than indecipherable but the sound seems to keep the room alive.   

     “I’ll send Grantaire in here to put him to bed.” Combeferre promises but he makes no move to get up.   

     “He’s okay for right now. I’d rather not wake him up.” She shoots Combeferre a look, adding, “He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping well lately anyway.”   

     The man shrugs. “He hasn’t.”   

     “His hair is covering his face, he isn’t sleeping, he is littered with bruises and his hand is nearly cut in half. I thought I could trust you, Combeferre, to look after him,” teases Cosette.   

     “I will only take responsibility for the long hair. He lost sleep over your trip and I’m afraid to tell you, my dear Cosette, that those particular bruises are from you missing your train.”   

     “Rightfully so!” She defends. Her voice rose and Enjolras stirs in her lap.   

     He smiles softly and nods sagely. “Rightfully so.”   

     “The hair would be an easy fix, though.” She runs the pad of her finger over the darkest bruise on his jawline. Guilt and pride in her smile. It’s because of her that he got hurt. It’s because he loves her that he got hurt.   

     “Have fun trying to get through Grantaire.”   

     “I’m not afraid of Grantaire.” She says confidently. “I can bribe him with wine.”   

     “And your plan for Jehan?”   

     “Why Jehan?”   

     “He likes to sit and braid his hair. E indulges him. Jehan thinks it calms him.”   

     “Calms Jehan or Enjolras?”   

     “Enjolras.”   

     “Does it?” asks Cosette, suddenly questioning whether it’s worth it if there’s value coming through it. “Calm him, I mean.”   

     Combeferre lifts his shoulder in that wise, diplomatic way he has of doing. “I believe it’s the quiet few minutes with Jehan that calms him, not the actual braiding. Force anyone to sit still and listen to the poet and they’ll be better for it.”   

     “So I can still cut it?”   

     “Of course, should you convince Jehan. It is too long. Keeps bothering him. Remind Jehan of that and I can’t imagine he’d still put up a fight.”   

     She looks up from Enjolras and studies Combeferre with an admiring smile. “You're so smart.”   

     “Just observant.”   

     “It is one and the same.” He opens his mouth to humbly defend his claim but she shakes her head and waves him off. “Say what you want, it won’t change my statement. Even Enjolras knows you’re the smartest one here. He’d be foolish to think otherwise.”    

     Combeferre smiles modestly and ducks his head. Running a hand through his hair, a little uncomfortable with the compliment. “You know, you could use a haircut too.” Cosette comments with a smile before they fall in to the easy task of catching each other up. She learns more of the last few months as Enjolras almost refused to talk about anything other than Cosette and he is happy to indulge any and all of her questions.

  
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     The walk upstairs only served to wake him back up, which he doesn’t mind when it means Grantaire ends up pinning him down on the bed. His hands are tight but careful around Enjolras’ wrists, his thighs keeping Enjolras’ hips down. With this advantage, Grantaire leaves slow, soft kisses down his jaw, his neck, on his exposed chest where the collar of his shirt is pulled down. Grantaire puts Enjolras’ injured hand in his other hand above his head and he doesn’t have to tell him to leave it there for Enjolras to stay still. With cautious hands, calloused and colorfully stained fingers, he pulls up Enjolras’ shirt, to reveal the strong, tan expanse of his chest. Enjolras watches the blue eyes study his skin, shivering at the way his fingers run over his faded scars, the curve of his bones, the dip in his muscles.   

      “Oh, thank god.” Grantaire whispers quietly, matching the tone of the dark room. “I’m glad to see he focused on your face.”   

      Enjolras chuckles softly but bites back his moan when Grantaire licks a quick line over his right nipple with a gentle smirk. His hand around his arm tightens and he caves, dropping his hands to either side of Grantaire’s face to bring him in for a kiss. He doesn’t like the way Grantaire always looks so relieved when he comes home and he doesn’t want to think about what he’ll look like on the day he doesn’t come home because there will be a day that he doesn’t come home. Usually Grantaire wouldn’t let him get away with moving but this kiss is different and Grantaire lets him because he has nightmares about the day Enjolras doesn’t come home.    

      They part suddenly, Enjolras forcing Grantaire’s face above him to study his soft blue eyes and the deep curve of his bottom lip. His one hand is curled up against Grantaire’s face because the stitches still pull painfully when he moves it but his other cups his cheek so he can trace the familiar lines on his face. Grantaire doesn’t even pretend that he could say no, not that he minds the attention. His thumb pauses and he locks eyes with Grantaire for a long minute before breaking the quiet of the room. “You deserve better.” Grantaire rolls his eyes, trying to look away but Enjolras tightens his hold with his second hand, ignoring the way the stitches sting. “You deserve so much better and I’m sorry I can’t be that for you.”   

      Grantaire drops his jaw, staring at him, then shakes his head. This time, Enjolras lets him, dropping his eyes because he knows he’s right and he knows that if Grantaire doesn’t yet know it, he’s sure to learn soon. Pulling Grantaire down into a tight hug, Enjolras buries his head in the warm, familiar crook of his neck. They shift into the soft sheets, Grantaire pressing kisses on the blond curls, getting as close as he can before falling asleep with the comfort of Enjolras safe in his arms. Enjolras doesn’t fall back asleep. He doesn’t close his eyes. He tries, sinking into the comfort of his Grantaire and breathing in the way he smells, intertwining their fingers, listening to his heart but he doesn’t close his eyes because his ear still rings and his can't hear the heartbeat quite right. The numbers still run through his head to the rhythm of his quick breathing. The flash of Javert’s smirk, the math that this drought will change, the faces of those who will not survive the winter. He feels the ache in his hand itching for a solution. There is a way he can save people, it’s just a matter of figuring it out. There's a way of saving France. Grantaire sighs in his sleep and Enjolras gently pulls himself out of the warm embrace. The arms pull him back but Enjolras keeps moving away.    

      “No. Stay.” Grantaire pleads, still half asleep.   

      “I just have to do something real quick.” Enjolras says with a brief kiss.    

      Grantaire mumbles something as the door closes softly and the click forces his eyes open. He stares longingly at the door, then shifts around on the bed, pulling the pillows and blankets around him. It’s not Enjolras though and to have Enjolras in the house but not in his arms hurts somewhere deep in his chest. He sits up and turns on his lamp, feeling the warmth of the wine from dinner weigh down his fingertips. He collects his sketchpad from under the bed and flips to an open page to pass time before Enjolras comes back. Three pages end up crumpled in the corner of the room before he’s happy with the slight curve of Éponine’s nose. Right when the lines of her face start to take shape, he realizes Enjolras didn’t promise. His heart sinks. He tosses the sketchpad aside and runs his hands across his face before leaving the room.    

      The only light downstairs is a single lamp from Enjolras’ office. The blond is leaning over his desk, his weight awkwardly supported by his elbow of his injured hand while his other fiercely jolts down notes he’s desperate to remember. His bandaged hand feels tight and he’s afraid to uncurl his loose fist in fear of pulling stitches but his head slowly drops lower and lower until it’s resting against that arm. The writing grows slanted and the ink begins to smear. Grantaire shuffles in, making just enough noise to alert Enjolras without startling him. Enjolras looks up, straightening over the desk, pretending he wasn't just asleep standing up.   

      “I won’t be much longer.” He says softly but Grantaire leans against couch and crosses his arms to set his boyfriend with a feigned pout. When he doesn’t say anything, Enjolras drops his focus to the paper and continues his notes. They are scattered and complicated, the ink smearing arrows and numbers, turning the side of his hand black.    

      “Do you have an estimate of how much longer?” Grantaire asks, tilting his head to try and see Enjolras’ face. All he sees is the intense focus of his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, the way his blue eyes flicker from small note to small note before making a long list of some statistics.   

      “No,” is his short answer. Grantaire makes his pout more pronounced but Enjolras is too distracted by some quick math he starts on at the bottom of the page.    

      “Is this one of those times where by _real quick_ you actually mean several hours?”   

      “What?” Enjolras asks without looking up.   

      “Are you going to be done soon? Or tonight? Or in time for breakfast?”   

      “No,” snaps the blond and Grantaire chews his bottom lip, falling quiet.    

      A few minutes pass before he stands up and takes a step towards the desk. Hoping to break through the extreme focus, he whines. “I don’t like sleeping in an empty bed.”   

      “Then try another bottle of wine, Grantaire because that always seems to help you.” Enjolras snaps viciously, finally looking up from his desk with a smack of his pen. Immediate regret swells in his chest as Grantaire flinches at the harsh words. They both drop their gaze. Enjolras swallows down his apology, only looking back to Grantaire once in a quick glance. The artist stays still for a long time and Enjolras’ scratching pen picks up momentum, fueled by his frustration. Grantaire doesn’t deserve that, but some how he can’t find the words to apologize so instead turns his anger to the people who do deserve it. He pushes the guilt aside to focus on the death that lingers when the summer dies.    

      Dejected and angry that he didn’t just stay in bed, Grantaire cautiously moves to the couch, waiting for Enjolras to send him away. When the blond doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give him anything outside of a fleeting look, he sits down and waits. He watches the way Enjolras works without obviously staring. To look productive, he picks up a book from the coffee table and pretends to flip through it.    

      Enjolras finds himself distracted. Not from the mumbled yet clearly sarcastic comments Grantaire makes as he reads through Combeferre’s dictionary but from the soft way he leans into the arm of the couch when his eyes fall in long blinks or how his head nuzzles against the couch when he finally gives in to sleep. Enjolras stares at the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes flutter occasionally, and surprised how he looks far younger than Enjolras usually thinks of him. The few years he has on Enjolras don’t seem like much until he imagines what Grantaire could be doing if he wasn’t waiting around here for him to come home. Living in a bright Paris loft with a view worthy of Grantaire’s artistic eye, drinking fine wine instead of the smuggled crap they just barely manage to keep around, and dressing up for brilliant gallery openings all in his name because even a selfish, greedy king would see the genius in Grantaire’s hands.   

      Enjolras should distance himself, push Grantaire far away, cut his heart out before Javert can get to his neck. But Enjolras is selfish. As selfish and needy and desperate as the king for those calloused hands, that admiring smile, that beating chest against his own. He won’t save Grantaire because Grantaire saves him. He’ll wait until Grantaire realizes this, then he’ll leave by himself and Enjolras won’t have to worry about coming home.   

      Putting his pen down, he moves around his desk and collects the dictionary, not because Combeferre would be disappointed to lose his place, the many red marks can help him find it, but if it falls to the floor it could scare Grantaire. He’s selfish, obsessed with destruction in the name of the republic, responsible for all the pain Grantaire feels but maybe, if he can pretend to be the man Grantaire believes he is, then maybe he can give just a little relief. Knowing his actions only manage to keep Grantaire around with the only kind of hope the cynic can hold on to gnaws at the whole of his chest but Enjolras ignores it because he doesn’t want Grantaire to leave. Grantaire can’t leave. So Enjolras covers Grantaire with a light blanket. In the heat, it’s not necessary but it’s the only way he can think of apologizing, of leaving his name over the sleeping man to be seen when he wakes.

      He moves in to the kitchen, dark in the dead of night and stuffy with the windows shut, locked, and barred. The coffee is purely feeding an addiction, simply habit. His brain is twisting around itself. He doesn’t need the caffeine but maybe he can push the fear that Grantaire’s time here is limited. It will be enough to keep him focused until he’s found a solution, made a plan, figured out how to work the statistics and save the winter. His chest heaves in anger, in useless frustration, with the need to act but no idea where to start.   

      As the machine whirls to life, soft footsteps pad against the tile floors. Enjolras glances up from the notes in his hands. Combeferre runs a hand under his glasses before smiling sleepily at his friend. “Hey, E.”   

      “He’s killing people, Ferre.” Enjolras says in lieu of a greeting. He tosses the papers across the kitchen island. They skid smoothly into Combeferre’s hands. “He’s starving people to feed the National Guard and the Guard's well enough paid to buy food anyway.”

      “It’s it significant?”   

      “People are going to starve but these numbers could be drastically lower. The lives they could save if they simply set up better proportions and distributions sites.” Enjolras trails off angrily as he pours two cups of coffee, then takes a step back and runs his hands through his hair, feeling the twitch of anger grow nearly unbearable. Combeferre helps, his pulse slowing just from his best friends soft hums as he reads through the notes. “I need to have Musichetta confirm our math, but this is mass murder, Ferre.”   

      Combeferre takes a sip of his coffee as he moves to the third page. “The math looks right, E. And if it is,” He trails off with a slow shake of his head.    

      “Courf and I went through it at the Musain.” Enjolras says, forgetting his coffee and starting towards the office. “We have to make this right but there are no clean solutions.”   

      “There rarely are, E.” Following Enjolras with both coffees and the dossier, Combeferre does a quick second take to Grantaire sleeping on the couch before sitting down at the desk. He hands Enjolras his coffee. If it’s not in his hands, Enjolras won’t remember it’s there. Enjolras doesn’t need it but perhaps Combeferre can limit him to one cup tonight. As the blond paces, alternating between reciting their notes to Combeferre and swallowing down his coffee, Combeferre scans through his written notes, occasionally adding bits and pieces of his own thoughts in a blue pen that he voices when Enjolras is drinking. Once they empty their coffees and finish going through the notes, Enjolras finally sits down across from his friend. Combeferre leans back in the chair, staring at the clutter on Enjolras’ desk. From the couch, Grantaire makes a sleepy noise and Enjolras glances over his shoulder to watch the way the dark haired man rolls to his side.   

      “I was mean to him.” Enjolras states as even toned as he had recited the statistics he already memorized. “I shouldn’t have been.”   

      “Did you say that to him?” Combeferre tilts his head when Enjolras shakes his. “I don’t have to elaborate on that one, do I?”   

      “No.” The blond answers quickly.    

      “Good.”   

      Enjolras drops his head to the table, squeezing his eyes before he sits back up again and grabs his notepad and a pen. “You and Cosette can sit down this week and do the finances for a second house, right? Preferably something within a twenty mile radius.” He writes the bullet point, making small, additional notes such as _Jehan: search local availability_. “Musichetta needs to go over our math.”

      “You need a haircut.” Combeferre suggests and smirks when Enjolras adds it.    

      “I want Bossuet to track down details, and maybe even the location, of that reporter who wrote the article Feuilly cut out. Put contacts on her family and friends as well.” Enjolras continues seamlessly. Once his pen stills, he drops his head again. When he lifts it, he rubs his free hand across his face, wincing as he forgets he cut his hand, then moves on. Combeferre intertwines his fingers in his lap and watches him fight the exhaustion. “We can start training Marius if he is still interested in being an active member.”   

      “Cosette wants to learn as well.”   

      “Learn what?”   

      “I don’t know exactly. That’s a conversation you’d need to have with her.” Combeferre says and before Enjolras can vocalize his disapproval with what Combeferre’s implying, he moves on. “Joly should check the medical supplies.”   

      Enjolras sighs, letting it pass for tomorrow. “Courf needs a new phone. She’s only twenty, you know.”   

      “We can send Boss and Joly in to the city for supplies. Enjolras, do I need to remind you how old we were when we started?”   

      “That was different. I want to consider killing the minister of agriculture.” Enjolras says suddenly, forgetting Cosette's apparent desire to learn how to _kill_. That's what they do, there's dancing around the dark realities of it. “At least burn down his house. Do something to the asshole, figure out why he’s so willing to skew the statistics. It may also slow down their progress until we have a better solution.”   

      Combeferre sits up in his chair and riffles around the stacks of paper until he finds the hit list he has yet to authenticate and adds the man’s name with a question mark, then tells Enjolras. “Authenticate hit list, then send out the assignments.” Enjolras adds it. “He’s feeding the people who are supposed to protect him against the likes of us. It’s not that far of a stretch to say it’s in self-preservation.”   

      Enjolras nods, looking at his friend for a long second before turning his gaze to the dark window. “My father wasn’t a good man. Neither is Lamarque. They might not skew statistics but they wouldn’t risk their position to fix it.”   

      “Doesn’t mean they aren’t good men. Just not as willing.”   

      “So they’re indifferent. Living purely within themselves. That’s worse.”   

      “It’s a different definition of ethics. Valjean stole but to us he’s a good man.”   

      “He is a good man.”   

      “I agree, however he still stole from someone else for his own benefit.” Combeferre holds up his hand against Enjolras comment on how the behavior is driven by a society where the leaders chose to ignore the lower classes to increase their own wealth and the blond patiently holds his tongue. “Different definition of ethics. We kill because we believe in the effect that death will have for the good we see. Valjean stole to save his family. Your father chose to work within the system, as does Lamarque, because they believed that to be the right way.”   

      “Fear restrains action and limits sight.”

      “So it does. That doesn’t mean those who live in fear are wrong.”   

      Enjolras nods, looking down at his hand and thinking of his father. “All dead men are good men, aren’t they.” He says bitterly. “Death doesn’t have a place in life. The one shouldn’t affect the man in the other unless martyrdom brings forth progress.”   

      “It only does if you allow it.” Combeferre states simply, sagely, ignoring the exception Enjolras made.

      Biting his lip Enjolras nods slowly, then huffs out a short laugh and gives his friend a small smile before announcing softly, “I’ll talk to Cosette but a trip down south may be required in a few weeks.” He sounds like it’s admitting something and once it’s out in the air, his chest feels lighter. Combeferre smirks smugly, knowingly and Enjolras can’t bite back his grin but he can roll his eyes the way he learned from Courfeyrac. With a sigh, he drops his head a third time, squeezing his eyes as if he can scare the fatigue away.

      “Alright.” Combeferre pushes himself out of the chair causing Enjolras to shoot his head up. “I think it’s time to get some sleep.”   

      “What?”   

      As he moves around the desk and lifts Enjolras out of his chair with a strong hand under his arm, he explains. “We have a good start for tomorrow, which is in,” he glances at his wrist and breaths out a surprised sigh, “five hours. We are both too exhausted to be any more productive tonight. Time for bed.”   

      Enjolras smiles up to Combeferre when his friend squeezes his arm on his way out, then steps toward the couch Grantaire is snoring softly. An uncomfortable anxiety overwhelms him for a moment, as he looks down the sleeping artist. He wants to curl up, apologize, kiss him slowly and gently in the way he deserves but he doesn’t like the sick feeling he gets when he’s reminded Grantaire is only here for him. The artist doesn’t fight for the republic, for the people, he fights for Enjolras because Enjolras asks him to. He won’t die for the republic. He’ll die for Enjolras. Enjolras can’t let him do that. He considers moving to his desk, working until he either has the answer or is too exhausted to care when a voice startles him.   

      “I thought I didn’t need to explain this one to you.” Combeferre says from the doorway. Enjolras snaps his head in that direction, then sits on the edge of the couch. Before lying down, he glances back to the door where Combeferre is smiling approvingly. He sits, happy he made the right decision, despite Combeferre’s little nod in the right direction, with his hands in his lap. He runs a finger along the edge of the bandage around his hand until fingers brushes against his leg, finding his hand and pulling him down. Enjolras doesn’t say anything as he lies down against Grantaire, relieved when the warm arms wrap around him and the heart-wrenching pain fades from his chest.    

      “I didn’t mean it.” Enjolras whispers in Grantaire’s hold.    

      Grantaire responds with a simple, “I love you.”   

      “You deserve better, Grantaire.”   

      His only response is a soft kiss and a muffled, “Shut up and go to sleep.”    

      Enjolras laughs against the guilty tears, then snuggles closer to his Grantaire and finally closes his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan unfolds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so much longer to update. I was distracted by another story but I should be quicker with the next chapter!

     Forgetting the stitches on his hand, Enjolras picks up the coffee cup only to put it back down immediately. Nearly dropping it and spilling half on to the kitchen island. In the last few weeks, Joly’s proven his word, as he always does, and Enjolras can feel his hand responding more each day. Without the bandage though, the hot ceramic burns the still tender skin. It’s going to be quite the scar. Knowing that his flexibility will return to normal, Enjolras easily ignores the pull of stitches and the sting of moving it. If he’ll be able to hold his knife, hold a gun, hold Grantaire’s hand, he’ll be fine and the pain is nothing but an irritation that will pass in time.   

     Seamlessly picking up his coffee with his other hand, Enjolras moves through the empty kitchen of the mostly empty house to the backyard. Combeferre is working in the office and Éponine is reading in her room, as it seems she’s made a habit of doing lately. Bossuet is in bed with the flu, Joly tending to him. Bahorel is working in the garage with Feuilly and the rest are practicing, training, picking a skill and repeating it until it becomes second nature with sleep. He stands on the porch, breathing in the cool air with deep breaths and closed eyes before watching Jehan flatten Marius. Again. Cosette’s laugh rings out over Courfeyrac’s instructions and Enjolras smiles. A breezes shifts through his thin shirt and he drops the smile to shiver.    

     “The summer is dying fast.” Grantaire says from behind him. He’s sitting with his back against the brick, knees pulled up to keep his sketchpad close. A smirk plays on his face but he doesn’t look up to Enjolras until he’s finished shading the glint in Gavroche’s eyes.    

     “You have a rather dramatic way with words, Grantaire.”    

     “Yes because I’m the dramatic one in this relationship.” The artist throws his head back to bark out a laugh. Enjolras rolls his eyes but chuckles, turning back to watch his friends. “So Apollo,” he says after a few quiet minutes pass. His tone is light but tense. “What’s the plan?”   

     Enjolras sets his mouth in a firm line, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t have one.”   

     The air stills around them. Grantaire flattens his legs against the stone and tilts his head at the blond. His sharp blue eyes are locked on the poet’s movements, smooth and routine but slow enough to predict. Marius Pontmercy has yet to anticipate the same blow and finds himself on his back. The dust coats his clothes, turning him a dull brown color as his face blushes red in frustration. Enjolras takes a sip of his coffee, then moves to sit next to Grantaire against the wall.    

     “He doesn’t have the mindset,” comments Grantaire. They both watch Marius stand up, brushing himself off.   

     “It will be months before we can send him out.”   

     “That’s being generous.”   

     “Cosette’s not fairing well either.”   

     “She’s too aware that it’s Jehan on the other side of her fist.”   

     “Then she’d be too aware that it’s a person in her scope.” Enjolras says as if Cosette’s fate as already been decided.   

     “They really are the perfect couple then.” The artist chuckles. When Enjolras turns to him, he sighs. “Come on, Apollo. You knew they were together, right?”   

     “Of course I did. Marius asked me for her hand.”   

     “That’s fucking adorable!” Grantaire laughs, his head thrown back against the wall. Taking the opportunity, Enjolras leans in and playfully kisses, then nips at his exposed neck. It startles Grantaire, the artist dropping his head so quickly that his chin smacks Enjolras’ temple. “Ow fuck. Sorry.”   

     The only response is a proper kiss, slow and soft. They part without words, just a small shared smile before turning back to watch Marius once again end up on the ground. He storms off in a huff of anger, followed by Cosette with gentle words brought to the house in another breeze. “They can not be counted.” Enjolras states calmly, as if running off a supplies list and their friends are just one more item to be accounted for.   

     “In what way?”   

     “If we are to act. They are liabilities. It would be as productive as sending Gavroche.”   

     “I think Gavroche would be more productive than Marius.” He jokes. Enjolras smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.   

     “There are only eleven of us. Ten because Joly must be protected.” He’s thinking out loud but Grantaire nods and hums anyway. The coffee disappears from his hand, forgotten next to his foot, and Grantaire’s sketchpad is tossed aside. “Ten. That’s not enough.”   

     “Enough for what?”   

     “For anything.” He runs his hands through the short curls. “We need the people.”   

     “And what would we do with the people, Enjolras?” Grantaire scoffs despite his attempts to nod dutifully. “Teach them all to be assassins? Have Jehan lead a group class?”    

     “You’re being dramatic.”   

     “You’re being wistful.”   

     “No I’m not. We’ve been picking off pieces of the system for years and what have we accomplished? Fear when our names are spoken and little else. We need to bring down the monarchy.” Enjolras’ voice catches fire. “People will still starve this winter and the National Guard will get fat as they stoke their warm fires.”   

     “And read Dickens,” adds Grantaire bitterly. He wants Enjolras to see the futileness of the fight, the illusions of having the entire population march behind him but he’d be a fool to think he could keep Enjolras’ passion out of his own blood. The blond stands up suddenly, knocking his coffee over.    

     “Courf!” He shouts, bringing the entire yard to a halt. The irishman glances over, nodding to Enjolras, then says something to Jehan before jogging to the house. To Grantaire, Enjolras smiles. “That’s it. Ten can cut heads off the hydra but millions can bring down the system.”   

     With that, he squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder before disappearing inside, Courfeyrac behind him. Grantaire watches the coffee sink between the brick, blood growing cold against the fire in Enjolras’ touch. He wants to scream, tackle the blond, and yell how much he loves him over and over again because Enjolras listened to him all those long, random and rambling nights when Grantaire retold Greek myths in bed. He wants to scream, tackle the blond, and yell how much he loves him over and over again because maybe he can convince Enjolras not to kill himself in the name of the Republic.

  
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     “We need the people.” Enjolras stands in front of the desk where Combeferre sits patiently. His head is tilted, his hands folded in his lap. Courfeyrac sits on the corner, notes and books pushed aside and forgotten in the light of Enjolras’ eyes. “We need to call the country to arms. Scare the king, demand our rights. Prove us a dangerous force that demands acknowledgment.”    

     “The country?” repeats Combeferre with a subtle nod. His question quiet and encouraging.   

     “Lamarque said we need the opinions of the people in our favor. We need a stand. We need to correct the media and gain reinforcements. Numbers the king can’t ignore. Make it clear we are on the peoples’ side and therefore they are on our side. Millions against a hundred.”   

     “Lamarque’s voice earns the people’s respect and his name keeps him safe,” reminds Combeferre. “How do you expect to gain that?”   

     “Another protest. If the people hear the statistics, if they hear that we are on their side, they’ll rise.”   

     “Enjolras, we’ve tried that.”   

     “And it worked. They can’t arrest all of Paris. They can’t arrest all of France.”   

     “No but they can kill you.” Courfeyrac says quickly. “Cut the head off the snake.”   

     “That would only further enrage the people.”   

     “No.” Combeferre states. The blond narrows his gaze but Courfeyrac nods.   

     “What?”   

     “No.” He says again, even and strong.    

     Enjolras crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you mean no?”     

     “You aren’t martyring yourself. Not like that. There is no guarantee that it would be productive and not scare the people to see their leader cut down like that.” Combeferre shakes his head. Enjolras starts to argue but it’s cut off with his best friend standing up. “No. I will not encourage you speak to your death.”   

     “It’s not a suicide mission, Ferre. If we get the people, we have a chance to destroy the monarchy. We can march on the king." He says suddenly. "Run a campaign. Give a date and a place. See who stands up with us.”   

     “Should that work, what happens next?” Combeferre asks his friend. His words aren’t sharp but intense, forcing Enjolras to pull each piece together.    

     The blond bites his lip, searching the floor for the answers. “Lamarque.”   

     “What about him?” Courfeyrac asks.   

     “Lamarque has the people’s best interest in mind.”   

     Combeferre sighs. “Perhaps.”   

     “No, he does. Combeferre you can’t deny that. You can’t deny that if he has the power to make it so, he will.” He moves to the desk, shoving papers out of the way and forcing Courfeyrac to jump to his feet before finding the dossier. “We use this discrepancy to set fire to the people. We’ve been picking off pieces. What we’ve done so far will do nothing to change the fact that thousands will starve this winter. Killing the king would only be as successful as killing me. If we bring down the system, we change everything.”   

     “Bring down the system how?” The rising excitement rings in Courfeyrac’s voice.    

     “Force the king to abdicate the thrown to Lamarque. Louis passes the crown over, the National Guard will follow.”   

     “Lamarque can break the crown.” The irishman grins.   

     Combeferre nods, smile small, restrained against the flaws in the still forming plan but encouraged. “Set up a people’s republic with the people’s man.”   

     Enjolras’ chest swells and his grin grows. “We need to see Lamarque.”

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     Combeferre sits with his back straight and face controlled to an easy calm while his best friend stands eagerly in front of the desk. Behind them, Courfeyrac leans against the door, his lips quirked up in an smirk, the most he’ll convey in his growing excitement. The general glances from one boy to the other then to Enjolras, shaking his head in his frustration and growing dread. If Combeferre is here with Enjolras, there is something brewing, something building. There are no bruises on Courfeyrac, no cuts on Combeferre, no new scars on Enjolras. There are only excited grins, twitching hands, steady breaths. There’s a plan.  

     Lamarque shakes his head. “Enjolras, I don’t know what you’re up to but I don’t want anything to do with it.”  

     “Give me the chance to explain.”  

     “We’ve been through this.” He sounds tired.  

     “I don’t want to kill the king.” He says, throwing his hands out. “I want him to live. Long live the king!”  

     The declaration brings an amused grin to Combeferre and a narrow gaze from the general. He sighs. “With an opening statement like that, how can I say no?”  

     “Quite easily,” answers Combeferre. “But you won’t.”  

     “You should have worked for me, Combeferre.” The older man says, pointing at the boy. He quirks up an eyebrow in that wise, clever way he has. Turning back to Enjolras, Lamarque sighs again. “You both should have.”  

     “Lamarque.” Enjolras grows serious, the only sign of glee lying in that keen shine of his blue eyes. He leans forward on the desk, resting his hands to stare at the old general with more power than most of his enemies held on the battlefield. Lamarque can’t look away despite how easy Combeferre thinks it would be for him. “We want you to be king.”  

     He laughs, surprised. Sobering for a minute, he studies Enjolras’ face, then laughs again because the kid is still staring at him. Glint sharper in his eyes, smile quiet and powerful. “What are you getting on about?” 

     Combeferre tosses a copy of the dossier on to the rather modest desk and Enjolras stands straight. This packet is thicker, free of bloody fingerprints and illegible notes. Only Combeferre’s clean handwriting stains the paper. “The people’s opinion.” Enjolras reminds him. “With this, we get the people’s opinion. We get our name on their tongues.”  

     “And what will that accomplish? A few whispers in a back alley?”

     “They will follow us to the throne.” Courfeyrac answers from the back of the room. Over his shoulder, Enjolras smiles at him. Lamarque’s gaze lingers on the boy, judging how heavy the title _lieutenant_ means to Enjolras, before looking down to the numbers.    

     “Lamarque, if we get the people to see why we are fighting, to see that with them, for them we can change things, they will follow us.” Enjolras explains, his tone dropping softer. “We can force the king to step down.”   

     “Why are you here, then? You seem to have your deaths all figured out.”   

     “The country will need a new leader.” Enjolras answers in a hush whisper, sharp with excitement and ignoring the doubt. “A good man to lead them.”   

     “You are a good leader, Enjolras. Even I can not deny that no matter how much I wish it were different.” He doesn’t need to add how he thinks it might just save the boy’s life if he didn’t speak with the convictions of generals, attract hope like the sun in a bitter winter, convince people with just one of his honest grins. He’s said it many times before and still, he’s watched it mar the boy’s skin. His words are nothing against Enjolras’.    

     “My name is forever tainted red but yours, General Lamarque.” Enjolras shakes his head in something close to awe. “You can lead France.”   

     “I’m dying, Enjolras.”   

     “You’ve been dying for the last ten years.”   

     “And one day I will.”  

     “Then hold off long enough for us to set up elections. Lead a provisional government long enough to carve out a republic that will be steady enough to save France.”   

     “A peaceful protest, General.” Combeferre says. “A peaceful march with the people of France behind us can force the king to abdicate the thrown.”   

     Enjolras leans forward, “We cease it. You cease it.”    

     “With those numbers,” says Courfeyrac, “every farmer, peasant, and beggar will fall in to step with us.”   

     “Every father, mother, and child.” Lamarque corrects with a glare.    

     “At least if they march with us there is hope. With the king there is only empty bellies and cold funerals in frozen earth.” Enjolras says as the general stands up. The room falls quiet. The old man peeks around the curtain to watch the street. Certainly gunshots ring out and blood clouds his vision, just the same as it does for Combeferre. He watches the general, then watches Enjolras. Only a glorious and free future dances in his eyes. Combeferre smiles because he can feel the possibility brush against his fingertips. He’d rather follow Enjolras to that beautiful future than cower from possible failure no matter how tragic the cries that haunt him are. “If we get the people, if we get the crown, can we count on you, General?”   

     The old man turns to the boy. His face tight and unreadable. He glances down to the papers on his desk, then to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Youth breathes off the boys, sparking something inside Lamarque’s chest. For the moment, his nearing death is forgotten. It’s that light, that swell of belief that answers for him. “Should you get the crown.”

  
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     “Call every contact.” Enjolras commands and Musichetta disappears. The room feels one person lighter but that does little to rid the presence of millions. Marius hides in the corner, next to Cosette. Her hand is in reach but he doesn’t dare grab for it because there is revolution in everyones eyes. Revolution and possibility, the future and promise. There is something rising in every chest, in every voice and Marius is not immune to the fervent air. He smiled when Enjolras spoke of rising the people, felt the fire rise in himself when he chanted _Vive la Republique_ , and itches to do something because _this is it_. “Feuilly, call Berlin and see if they have members in the country.”   

     Marius watches the red headed man leave, then drops to look at the colors spreading from Grantaire’s hands on the map. He only stays in his chair because of Cosette. Because he wants to live with Cosette, marry Cosette, grow old with Cosette. No one speaks of the possible failure but it exists under the soles of their shoes as they move in rhythm of the fire. Even if the people rise, both the National Guard and the Army will stand between them and the crown. Bullets cut through fire. Blood kills voices.    

     Next to the artist, Bossuet reads off statistics, helping him proportion the colors appropriately. As the map takes form, the physical representation of wealth in the country, Marius’ jaw drops and he itches again to do something. There isn’t much he can do, though, that much was clear in the few weeks of training. He has no contacts, no skills, no experience. Neither does Cosette. Maybe they’ll be station home, away from the guns and the death. Maybe they’ll be married and grow old.   

     “Jehan, how are the flyers?” Combeferre asks, standing next Marius’s table. Words dance across the poet’s paper, ranging from elegant script to nearly illegible scratches. Ink stains his hands, his arm, his chin where he’s rested it against his palm in thought. Combeferre bends to read over the words when Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Enjolras speak in whispers while looking at the map of Paris on the wall. Enjolras is pointing at one spot while Courfeyrac shakes his head and points in a different direction, debating where to gather their crowds. After a deep breath, Marius reaches over and takes Cosette’s hand. She’s leaning forward in her chair but not offering her voice and when their fingers intertwine she smiles. Things seem to slow down, their voices dull behind the way she looks at him. Time goes by and he doesn’t feel the fire stir, he doesn’t feel the cause flood his veins. He wants to grow old with Cosette.       

     “Marius, a word?” Enjolras asks with a small smile, appearing in front of his face and Marius almost flinches, shaken from their house together in the country and the long walks they take through the tall grass. The chief rarely speaks to him outside of encouraging rants and political arguments when Marius often stumbles across his words and Enjolras is good enough to give him the time to articulate his opinions before proving him wrong. In a time such as this, when flyers are being created, people are being rallied, why would he need to speak to Marius?   

     “Sure.” He follows the blond to the back porch, squeezing Cosette’s hand on the way out and latching on to the encouraging smile she gives him and ignoring the questioning look she sends Enjolras. Watching his feet, anxious breath heaving in his chest, Marius tries to run through everything he could be needed for, everything he might be perfect for, everything he may have don’t wrong to be spoken to sternly because the intensity in Enjolras’ stare can only lead to a reprimanding. He tries to think of every excuse to stay with Cosette. When Enjolras turns to him, a safe distance from being heard, he shivers in fear and anticipation.   

     “There is no pretending that you lack the productive skills needed for something like this.” He states and Marius’s eyes grow wide but he nods slowly, embarrassed and in no position to defend himself. The heat creeps up his neck in a sharp blush. “That’s good.”   

     “What?” stutters the younger boy. It makes Enjolras smile softly.   

     “That’s good. If you aren’t going to be able to help in the city, in the direct plan, you can help me with something else.”   

     “I’m not sure I understand.”   

     Enjolras hands him a small folded sheet of paper, swallows then explains quietly. “I need you to take Cosette to the first address. It’s a three and a half hour drive south. She’s been there before but she shouldn’t know this route.”   

     “What’s there?”   

     “Her father.” He answers quickly, sounding impatient at the question. “She won’t like it at first. In fact, she’ll probably hate it until she realizes I’m right. I don’t know how long that will take.”   

     “How do you know you’re right if you’re so convinced she’s going to hate it?”   

     “Because she doesn’t want to fight. She’d rather walk with you than train with me.” Enjolras drops the eye contact to study the dust on his boots. “She doesn’t want to kill, she doesn’t want to die. You can protect her until you get to her father’s.” Looking up, staring in to Marius’ naive eyes, he adds, “You can make her happy.”   

     “Who are you to make that decision for her?” snaps Marius with courage in Cosette’s smile.   

     “Because I know people will die and if I can guarantee it’s not going to be Cosette’s blood that’s spilled then I will do everything in my power to do so. Take her home. Marry her. Make her smile as often as you can. Can I trust that to you?” Enjolras asks, eyes sharp but worried. Fearful and hopeful, searching Marius for the confidence to protect Cosette. She’ll hate him for it, hate Enjolras, but she’ll be alive to hate him.    

     “Okay.” He agrees softly.   

     “Yes?”   

     “Yes. I’ll protect her.”   

     “Thank you, Marius.” Enjolras pats his arm. “The other addresses are safe houses, friends, and connections. People and places that will help you with my name should you need it.”   

     “You don’t think this will work?”    

     “Of course it will work.”    

     “Then why the urgency to get Cosette safe?”   

     “Because the National Guard will fire on us as soon as they see me.”   

     “Oh.”   

     “It will be the catalyst for a revolution.” Enjolras grins with such conviction that Marius almost regrets not being near the guns to see the people rise but he takes Cosette and he takes Gavroche, per quiet request from Éponine, far, far away from the revolution.

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     Cosette knows. Both Marius and Enjolras see the quick flash of understanding in her blue eyes as she’s told about the _supplies run_. They expect a fight, a stance to stay, or at least an angry parting complete with a shove to Enjolras about making her decisions for her and a frustrated storming to the waiting car. Instead, her eyes swell with tears and she hugs each friend, long and fierce and whispering something in their ears that’s strung on their love and their love alone.    

     She doesn’t hug Enjolras in front of everyone because he walks her to the car. Their hug is tight, fierce and her chest shakes with the effort to keep in her tears. She keeps him close for several minutes, his arms wrapped around her shoulders shaking with the effort to make himself let her go. Cosette buries her face in his warm chest as if trying to keep him with her, trying to convince him to come with her.

     "Thank you." Her words are quiet, muffled against his shirt. They both know what it's for. "Stay safe, okay? And visit soon."

     He laughs against the tears and holds her harder, clenching his jaw because people are going to die and he can't keep that promise.

     The trip is south and the only place south Enjolras would be comfortable leaving her is her father’s house. Her father’s great big farmhouse with a room for each Ami, some already claimed by those who’ve been there, including the smallest room for Enjolras and Grantaire. On the back porch, shaded in gentle trees, she sees Grantaire sketching and Enjolras reading, Combeferre next to them, smiling that gentle, content smile he has when everyone is happy and safe. She glances up from her walk with Marius around the soft grass to see Bahorel chasing Gavroche and Bossuet and Musichetta throwing out encouragements. She sees Jehan under a tree with Courfeyrac lying across his legs, talking and laughing as the poet watches the gentle lines in his face grow with each light word and elated chuckle. Joly is inside with her father discussing one thing or another and Éponine is reading in his dark and cozy library. Her chest swells painfully to see them alive, see them unburdened and safe. That’s where they all should be going.   

     Gavroche puts up a small defense as to why he should stay and fight but a quick word from Éponine and a stern look from Combeferre, a whispered _keep an eye on Cosette for me?_ from Enjolras is all enough to get him in the car.   

     They leave for the safety of Jean Valjean’s arms and the days begin to bleed together as they get colder and colder the closer it comes to their stand and the further away from summer. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac plan well in to every night. They argue, debate, and disagree but their voices never rise in the quiet house. There are factors to consider, scenarios to plan for, things to adjust to. What happens if Enjolras should die? Courfeyrac takes the control in the field and Combeferre returns to the safety of the Musain to plan forward. What happens if Lamarque dies? Combeferre steps in for the general. _My name is nothing compared to yours! Your name is gentle and logical, you love the people as much as I do but in a kinder way. Trust me, Ferre. You will be better._ There’s no response from Combeferre and they move on to where they meet should they fall back? The Musain, where Joly will wait with all the medical supplies they’ve managed to accumulate, then Valjean’s down south if things take a real turn for the worst. _If necessary, because it will be necessary at one time or another, pull back, take a deep breath, and reassess._

     They discussed every possibility, pulled on every loose string, looked from every angle so the day before Enjolras let’s himself be led upstairs by Grantaire’s soft, sad eyes. He lies on the bed with his fingers threaded through the dark curls as Grantaire presses hundreds of kisses along his jaw, on his cheek bones, across the bridge of his nose. Down his neck, over his chest, then back to his lips as if memorizing every curve and every line of Enjolras. It's soft and slow and laced with such sadness in the coming days that Enjolras almost dreads the rising sun for giving Grantaire that short of a timeline. They fuck and it's just as soft and sweet, there are no teeth, no twisted words, no fighting for control until they're so close its painful and then it seems like a really fucked up metaphor that Grantaire has to push the spiraling thoughts away. As he finishes Enjolras bites hard on Grantaire’s collar bone, teeth sharp enough to draw blood and Grantaire yanks on the blond curls to bring him to the pillow so the blue eyes are looking up at him, then collapses on top of him.

     “I want you to stay with Joly.” Enjolras says in to the dark room after enough time has passed to regain his breath. He's overheated in Grantaire’s tight hold and the quilt but he doesn’t think twice of it. “Protect the Musain in case we need to fall back.”   

     “No.”   

     “Grantaire,” sighs Enjolras but Grantaire only interrupts him.    

     “No.”   

     “Then you take a rooftop position. We need your sniper on the National Guard. Take out the commanders with Feuilly and Jehan.”   

     “I want to be near you.”   

     It’s his turn to be strict. “No.”    

     “Enjolras, please.” He pleads. His voice sounds painful against tomorrow.   

     “No. I need you high with a productive sight line.”   

     “I want to be by your side.” He presses his face against Enjolras', unashamed of how desperate he sounds. Blue eyes squeeze tight with unshed tears. _Enjolras isn’t dead yet_. “Please, Enjolras?”   

     Enjolras swallows painfully around the unfamiliar lump of fear in his throat. “If you take a bullet for me, I swear to god I’ll kill you myself.”   

     “Just don’t get in the way of any bullets, then.” Grantaire laughs and Enjolras tries to remember the sound. 

     Turning on to his back so Grantaire is above him, Enjolras cups his hands around his lovers face, lifting him up and memorizing the soft lines from the man’s smile. “I love you,” he says quietly.   

     “I love you.”

     “Don’t die for me. Okay?” He asks.    

     “Then don’t die.” It might be a joke yet his voice cracks around the words.   

     Enjolras tries to look away but Grantaire doesn’t let him, moving his arms to either side of his face. “I can’t promise that.”   

     “Then neither can I.”     

     “Grantaire, please. I can't let you die for something you don’t believe in.”   

     “But I believe in you.” 

     The words tear at Enjolras' heart and he brings Grantaire's face down to bury his own in the strong neck, shutting out the tears, the fear and focusing on the warm breath by his ear and the future tomorrow will bring.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The revolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's been nine years since the last update!! It's much longer and a fair deal of action, so hopefully that makes up for it!

     The day comes quickly, too quickly perhaps but Enjolras beams at the men and women before them. If they waited a few days, a week, a month even, thousands could have made it but this is enough, he’s sure, and his grin convinces Combeferre. It convinces Grantaire and Courfeyrac and the hundreds before them. The restless hundreds with voices raises, empty bellies, and anger almost as sharp as Enjolras’ in their eyes.   

     There is no pedestal, no crate, no podium for the blond to stand on. There is only the edge of the fountain to give him the few extra centimeters, sending his voice a few centimeters higher for the extra volume. Four, five meters deep is as far as he’s seen but he’s heard through out the city. His voice echoed by hundreds. There is no man above the crowd, no individual above the people. Ninety-three of his friends and comrades are dispersed among the few hundred, handing out the flyers, pamphlets, repeating Enjolras’ words from the front, repeating the plan, the goals. It’s mostly rural farmers brought by the promise of fair taxes and the rights to their own crops, by full bellies for their children and stocked fireplaces. Some ex-slaves ready for revenge or justice. There are a fellow rabble rousers ready for any kind of upheaval, miners covered in soot with crooked necks, city workers living seven to an apartment, street gamins and orphans, passer-by’s drawn towards the rowdy crowd and the charismatic leader demanding the king’s crown  _for the people_.   

     They cheer when Enjolras cheers, repeat _Vive la Republique_ when he demands it, steps forward when he steps to the side. He jumps off of the fountain, light in his boots with the thrill of progress, leading the charge to the Louvre, to the king, to the waiting National Guard. They don’t make it out of the Gardens before they’re met by the standing Army and Grantaire’s heart sinks. He wants to take a step closer, to collect Enjolras’ hand in his own, to shout _Vive la Republique_ one last time because maybe he’ll believe it this time but Enjolras stands tall and Grantaire won't spoil that image. The knife above his ankle, father’s gun on his thigh, pistol in the back of his jeans because _this is a peaceful March_. For now. Enjolras feels Combeferre’s shoulders straighten next to him, Courfeyrac swallowing anxiously, and Grantaire’s hands trembling at his sides. The crowd grows quiet, half of the guns raised and half of the faces hidden because where Enjolras agrees with Combeferre, those who’ve lost much more than them over the years don’t and they all know it will not remain a peaceful march for long. Whether the blood spills now or in front of the palace is decided on by the power in front of them.   

     Enjolras feels the surging force behind him, running his eyes across the Army, across the tattered uniforms and the rusted weapons. He knits his brow at the dirty faces of the young men, the unkept gray beards of the old veterans who aren’t given enough for retirement. Death is their only way out. Their sources were limited for the Army, a few statistics and a couple grainy photos from where they were fighting a losing battle for the gold in northern Africa. There were rumors of drafts but no confirmation. Enjolras had waited for that call. When it never came, he dropped the campaign for more reliable sources. His only hope was that they were too slow getting back, if the king called them in at all. He hoped the king underestimated the resistance.   

     The general steps in front of Enjolras and smiles. Slowly, he offers his right hand with a quiet, “May we join you?”    

     Enjolras shakes the hand, as calloused and scarred as his own, and grins. He raises his fist in a cheer as the soldiers blend in to the crowd, adding power, men, and heavy meaning behind the cause. There are no questions, no explanations outside of the general’s excited but professionally restrained, “We’re not going to die for the king’s debts anymore.”   

     Enjolras nods in his understanding and Courfeyrac pats his back with the energy he can’t contain, gaining an almost shy smile from the general as they move across the city. There’s the understanding, by the way the leader of the French Army steps behind Enjolras, that the soldiers, the workers, farmers, families, and children will follow Enjolras’ orders. They stop a few meters behind the chief when met by the National Guard across the Seine. Not in fear but respect. It will be clear to everyone, from the last child in the back of the resistance to the king himself. They follow Enjolras.

     The Louvre is in sight, the king within reach. Enjolras takes a deep breath, settling the rising thrill in his spine, and focusing on the National Guard standing between them. He takes the pistol in hand, resting it calmly at his hip. A silent command, a loud warning to both the waiting Guard and the citizens behind him. He hopes no one expects this to end with negotiations. Those who believe in peaceful results are the first to bleed. In a few causal steps to the side, he searches out the Commander of the Guard before glancing behind him to make sure he’s standing in front of Combeferre.   

     The pristine National Guard uniforms are pressed, the shine of their guns reflect the sun, the set jaws and square shoulders seem like they were hand drawn. They dressed up for them. Feuilly and Jehan disappear to find their designated perches where their sniper riffles wait. Musichetta and Bossuet lead small chunks of the liberators to flank the palace, hoping to thin the Guard out and create a path to the king. Enjolras steps forward, demanding the king step down. The Commander of the National Guard stands at the back of his men, unseen by the resistance and protected by the threats, demanding quiet and annoyed orders. The resistance is interrupting his brunch. Enjolras shouts for the king again, his voice echoed by hundreds. When there is no answer, no response other than the last command to disperse, Enjolras raises his fist and his voice. “Vive la Republique!”   

     The crowd raise their guns and the National Guard aim theirs. People fall, the cries deaden by the shouts. Enjolras flinches against the sound, against the knowledge of what that means but allows himself a quick glance, a quick check to see it’s a woman and two men, motionless and bleeding on the streets at their feet while the people around them try to pull them back. His face grows red with anger, with a heavy sense of desperation because more will fall and there won’t be the opportunity to pull the dead to safety. End this. End the king. Fix this. The decision is echoed by the crowd, led by Enjolras, as their own shots create a haze of smoke above the masses.   

     Enjolras loses Combeferre, loses Courfeyrac, loses Grantaire. He loses the crowd and loses the time because all of France is behind him. It’s enough to pretend they are safe at the manor. For the moment, he’d rather kill than risk discovering grief. Getting close enough to drop his now empty pistol, he grabs his knife and the space between the over paid, over protected National Guard disappears the same way his blade does in a soldier's neck. There’s one down, then another, and a third. The fourth is trickier, landing a few quick blows to Enjolras’ chest before they tumble to the ground, people running past them, bodies falling around them. He ignores the flash of familiar boots. Taking the man’s head in his hands, Enjolras needs all but two quick hits against the concrete and he is motionless. Enjolras is up again, knife in his hand. He takes the time, now with a solid line of revolutionaries in front of him, shielding him for the moment. His friends’ aren’t in sight and he doesn’t allow himself to find Grantaire, to think of Grantaire.    

     More of his men are falling than the Guard but that was to be expected. They are poorly prepared, under equipped, starving and dying already and yet they fight. His chest swells with pride, with progress. As he steps forward towards the king a familiar flash of uniform cross his vision. Javert.  _Javert_. The police. They didn’t consider them a factor in the fight, only a short means to get through. They've escaped and defeated the police before. It makes sense, though, and maybe Javert is the key. Perhaps he can see the horror the king is bringing upon his own people, the death and disease. Perhaps Javert can understand this attempt at rebuilding their country for their people. Enjolras takes off towards the man. The Chief of Police. With the police force  _and_ the Army, they will be a valid threat to the National Guard. They may be ominous enough for the king to take pause, to sit down and listen to their demands. He may give up the throne but he’d still have his life.    

     The man has many scars that Enjolras is responsible for, many injuries and pains, many late nights and restless days but maybe Javert will see what tomorrow can be for them. He weaves through the crowd, taking out soldiers when he’s within reach, helping comrades when he can. Someone catches him with the back of a gun to his head and he stumbles, dazed, but still moves, still towards Javert and towards progress because _how could he have missed that Javert was the key?_    

     “Javert!” He shouts when he’s close enough to be heard over the guns, the cries and tears, the bodies falling and the blood dripping. It all echoes in his ears, in his bones. Enjolras can’t hear his own voice. The man turns his head but scans over Enjolras so he shouts again, louder. “Javert!”   

     It’s loud enough or familiar enough to catch his attention and Javert shifts, stepping behind a few of his men, a few National Guard members, watching Enjolras. The blond holds his hands up, the knife still held but blade flat against his scarred palm, hoping to convey his desire to speak. Shifting and side stepping the fight around him because  _people are dying_ Enjolras makes his way to the inspector. The man is moving away from him and Enjolras doesn’t notice where they’re going until the crowd becomes thinner, the buildings taller. With Javert as many people might not die. His name is shouted behind him. Risking a quick glance earns him a sudden, sharp pain in his arm. Blood drips down his shirt but he regains his control of his breathing and continues to chase the missing piece to their plan, not allowing himself the time to linger on what was certainly a bullet. He’s been shot before and he’s survived. That is nothing to the pain of jumping over dead fathers, dying mothers, crying children. “Javert, please!”   

     There is no one else in the alley he suddenly finds himself in but he doesn’t move his gaze from the key to take in his surroundings. The thought that this is a trap passes his mind but Enjolras is the one trying to get Javert’s attention. If it is a trap, then the people will rally at his death, led by Combeferre. Combeferre is a kind man, he’d do well. The inspector turns to face Enjolras, his face stern and difficult to read. Enjolras raises his hands again, breathing quick but efficient as he spills over his words. “Please, Javert! Give me a chance! You can stop this. You can step over to our side, to the people’s side. It’ll show them we can’t all be killed, that the revolution can’t be stopped.”   

     Slowly, Javert raises his gun and aims it steadily between those goddamn blue eyes. He smirks as they grow wide. Although it’s not fear, as Javert would have hoped to see in the boy’s last moments, the painful understanding that settles in them is good enough.    

     “You can save the people.” The blond says softly. It’s not pleading, it’s not begging, and it’s not as satisfying. Maybe that’s because he’s still breathing, Javert considers. “It’s on you. Think about it, Javert.”   

     “You expect me to join a rebellion against the King? The King is the law!” He shouts angrily despite his attempts to remain collected. Cut off the head of the snake.     

     “But he’s not the country!” The passion falls off his voice stronger than the blood dripping down his chest and for the moment, Javert’s trigger finger falters. “The people are and if you don’t treat them right, this happens!”   

     “You’re wrong,” is all the inspector says before he shifts his aim and pulls the trigger as many times as he can because Enjolras knows. Enjolras can see and can hear the doubt thickening his tongue. Enjolras knows and Enjolras smiles that horribly hopeful smile.    

     Javert’s hand shakes. There were only three bullets but he pulled the trigger enough times to kill the entire rebellion. Enjolras looks at him. He doesn’t fall, he doesn’t drop. He looks at him. The handsome face pinches in confusion as his hands rise to his chest. He looks away from Javert to the blood now dripping between his fingers, filling in the spaces between the cobblestones, then back. The strong voice slurs the slightest as he states in shock, “You shot me.”   

     “You are a terrorist.” Javert declares softly. Why does he sound like the one who’s losing strength?   

     “Why would you shoot me? There are,” his eyes close and he begins to grow unsteady on his feet, “there are so many other people dying.”   

     “Because they followed you.”   

     “Because you’re too petty to see tomorrow!” Enjolras shouts painfully. There is a heavy suspicion that it’s not the bullet wounds in his chest. Behind him Combeferre sprints around the building corner. He looks from his friend’s back to the inspector, raising his gun at the man at the same time he narrows his eyes. A moment passes, then another. The air stills, the battle quiets, and Javert takes a step back. When Combeferre doesn’t kill him, he takes another one. If Combeferre knew Enjolras was dying, he’d pull the trigger. His gun follows the inspector and Javert can hear his steady breathing from across the alley. Combeferre isn’t one to underestimate but a bloody cough escapes Enjolras, saving Javert. It’s enough to pull Combeferre’s attention away, giving Javert the time to stumble away, his hand shaking along the wall. Once out of sight, the screams fill his chest and it echoes through the crowd, through the dying and the dead. The familiar voice of the chief, wrapped around painful, bloody screams, his guide’s cries, his lover’s broken pleads, his country’s failing fight. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he doesn’t care because the screams don’t leave him until they leave his own throat.   

     His chest is screaming for oxygen and it forces him to his feet. When he dropped to his knees, Javert can’t recall. Enjolras is dead. Or dying. The revolution is dead. Now he has to stop this. Javert sprints through the National Guard, weaving between boys and sidestepping wounded. Maybe he killed the chief quickly enough and they can be saved. At the Commander’s side, he stops and grins because this can end now.    

     “The chief is dead. Enjolras is dead.” Javert announces, out of breath. He ignores the painful way it pulls at his chest and forces himself to grin, thinking of the men that can make it to the hospital in time and not those already lost. They were neighbors, cousins, brothers. All Frenchmen. That doesn't seem to matter to those being paid to fight today.

     “Good. Where is he?” The Commander asks calmly.   

     “In an alley a few blocks away. Combeferre was with him. I doubt they’d leave him there.”   

     “Then the chief is not dead,” says the man with a frustrated head shake. To Javert, he spits, “I want his head.”   

     “But sir, I shot him. If he’s not dead yet, he’s dying. Without the leader, this revolution can stop.”   

     Sharp eyes narrow on Javert. The Commander steps down from the palace stairs, protected by large stone columns. _How many starved for that decoration?_ Javert pulls himself to his full height. He won’t cower to the man even as he’s reminded the Commander of the National Guard is second only to the King. “How do you know this boy?”   

     “I’m the Chief Of Police.” Javert answers sharply. The man knows who he is. “I’ve been dealing with his antics for several years now.”   

     “So you’d know where they would go? If he’s dead or dying.”   

     Javert hesitates before nodding. “I know a few places they may resort to.” 

     “Then find him. The King wants to hang him in front of the Notre Dame.”   

     “But he’s no longer a threat, I assure you.”   

     “I don’t care. The King doesn’t care.” Waving a hand to the fight in front of them, he says as if this is an entertaining sport, “This is but a mere inconvenience for the day’s plans. A well organized one but ineffective nonetheless. The King wants to make sure the people do not try again. He does not enjoy killing his own people.”   

     Javert’s eyes twitched in anger. It sounds like he’s making a joke. A joke. People are dying. Children are starving. That’s not right. The man continues, “Find him. Bring him to me and I will ensure no one will look to him as a martyr.”   

     Swallowing every word, every objection, every doubt, Javert nods once and turns away. He doesn’t run through the bodies this time. He walks slowly, patiently because maybe he’s wrong about where Combeferre will go.

  
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     Enjolras drops to his knees. The sharp crack against the ground hurts which is weird because _you’ve been shot,_ he reminds himself. He should be focusing on that. Grantaire’s going to be sad, horribly, heartbrokenly sad. Blood fills his mouth and he considers swallowing it but decides against the warm metallic, knowing it could make him sick, and tilts his head to the side to spit. The world moves under him and he falls, shutting his eyes as his shoulder hits the concrete, then turns on to his back. He chokes on the blood in his mouth and he doesn’t have to have studied medicine to know that’s bad. He's seen more than enough men die from wounds like that. The fire in his chest catches a spark that rips a scream through his body but it’s muffled as the blood bubbles down his throat. He claws at his shirt, as if pulling at the bullet holes would stop the pain, and tries to spit out the drowning blood.   

     Someone blocks the sun above him, shadowing his face. Combeferre falls to his side, out of breath from screaming and running. Enjolras should have known. Combeferre is always at his side, whether he sees him or not. Thank god Javert didn’t see him. He’s still shouting Enjolras’ name, pulling his hands away so he can see the damage before pressing his own over the torn skin. He’s glad it’s not Grantaire. This, Combeferre can handle. Blood quickly seeps through Combeferre’s fingers just as it had with Enjolras’. _That’s a lot_ , Enjolras thinks. _That’s too much_.   

     “You’re okay. It’s okay, Enjolras.” Combeferre is saying. “We can fix this. I’ll fix this, okay? It’s going to be fine. It’s not that bad. I’m going to fix this.”   

     There are tears in his eyes. Enjolras reaches out to wipe them away but hesitates when he sees his red stained hands. His fingers are shaking. When did it get so hard to control his hand? _When Javert shot you._ Right. He doesn't remember anything hurting this badly but he isn't sure if it's the injury itself or the sound of Combeferre's voice as he screams for help. Combeferre’s yelling, looking away with his own shaking hands clamped down as hard as he can on his best friend. The force is enough to bring black spots to his vision but Combeferre is scared, so Enjolras doesn’t say anything. When Combeferre looks down, he smiles and tells Enjolras it’s going to be okay. _He can’t fix this_. Enjolras shakes his head. Combeferre needs to get out of here because Javert shot him and Javert is close by. “Go,” he commands but the blood bubbles in his mouth. Hands find their way to either side of his face and suddenly the world moves again as his head is tilted. It’s easier to breathe now but he can’t remember what he was supposed to say.    

     Above him Combeferre is screaming something and the hands around his face are gentle and familiar. They wipe the tears away but he can’t see who it is because he didn’t realize he had started crying. That seems more important right now. The pain flairs up in his stomach and he feels sick. Enjolras closes his eyes because that’s easier. It’s easier than trying to look because if he moves too much he’ll throw up. It’s easier than trying to talk because there is too much blood in his mouth. It’s easier than fighting because he’s too tired to fight anymore. Combeferre’s here. Combeferre will take care of everything, will take care of him.

     “No. No. Enjolras! Come on,” Combeferre calls. He shifts closer to his best friends’ face but doesn’t move his hands. Éponine taps his face, pleading just the same, but Enjolras’ eyes don’t flicker. Jaw clenched against the onslaught of tears, Combeferre looks around pleading for help, his voice cracking. He feels a breath escape Enjolras, his chest sinking under his hands. Combeferre looks down, feeling his own breath leave. “No.” He says dumbly. “No, no, no.”   

     Letting go of Enjolras’ chest, Combeferre lunges to collect his best friends’ head in his shaking hands. Éponine falls back at the sudden movement. _No. No. No._ Combeferre taps his face, pleading, tears falling across the pale skin. _No. No. No_. His thumbs run across Enjolras’ cheek bones, marking him with bloody war paint. _No. No. No_. “No! Enjolras, please, come on. Come on, Enjolras. Wake up, please. You’ve got to wake up. I can’t do this on my own! Wake up, Enjolras!”   

     Hands wrap around his arms and pull him back but he refuses to let go of Enjolras. He screams, still, kicking at the body behind him. He won’t let go. The grip tightens and Combeferre elbows the man, then lands a kick to a shin and the hands drop him long enough for him to move closer to Enjolras, cradling his head in his lap. He brushes the blond curls back with a trembling hand. Whoever tried to pull him back has stepped away but Combeferre can feel their presence behind him. Combeferre searches for a pulse but his fingers are too slick with blood to find one. He feels sick. He can’t breath. “Enjolras, please?” He just manages to beg. “Please, Enjolras wake up. Come on, Enjolras! You can’t die. You’re not allowed to die because I can’t do this.” He screams at his best friend. “Damn it, Enjolras! Please?”   

     Bahorel drops in front of Combeferre, having to lean over Enjolras to catch his eye. Time is vital right now, whether or not Enjolras is still breathing. “I’ll grab him. Come on, we have to go.” There's no response. “Combeferre, let go. God damn it, let go!”   

     “I’ve got E.” Bossuet announces. Glancing over his shoulder, Bahorel makes eye contact with his friend, kneeling on the other side of Enjolras and nods. In a quick, hefty movement, Bahorel grabs one of Combeferre’s arm and steps forward to pull him over his shoulders. It feels sacrilegious to tear the two apart but if Enjolras has any chance they have to move now. Combeferre kicks and screams and fights, crying and shouting for Enjolras, who’s behind them carefully held in Bossuet’s reliable arms. They make it through the crowds, following Éponine and her quick trigger. When the people begin to thin, the streets grow quiet, Combeferre calms enough for Bahorel to put him down and take up some of the weight of their motionless chief.   

     The Musain is nearly silent, protected by a select few. Everyone in the city is either locked in the safety of their apartments or dying at the palace. Once they walk through the upstairs apartment, Joly instantly takes charge. He commands them to lay Enjolras on the mattress and calmly wipes the blood off his neck where Combeferre frantically searched for a pulse. Everyone holds their breath. Several seconds pass and Combeferre falls back against the wall because he doesn’t trust his legs anymore. It's too long. Too much blood.   

     “I need warm water and towels.” Joly commands quickly.    

     Combeferre stares at his friend in disbelief. Quietly, as if afraid of misreading Joly’s demand, he asks, “Yeah?”   

     “Yeah.” Joly confirms after glancing over his shoulder to see Éponine starting to boil water. He tears off Enjolras’ shirt, but pauses to look up to Combeferre. “Can I rely on you?”   

     Staring at his best friend’s bloody face, Combeferre nods slowly, then he shakes his head to clear his vision. He drops to the other side of Enjolras and steadily follows Joly’s quick instructions. There is no fear of infections or soldiers as Joly starts operating on his friend right then and there. There is only the steady stream of blood that has to be stopped and the damage inside that needs to be mended.    

     “We need Jehan.” Joly says while he makes an incision across Enjolras' chest. Combeferre keeps towels firmly over the other bullet wounds. “He has the same blood type and E’s going to need it soon.”   

     “I’m O positive,” offers Éponine.    

     Joly nods. “That will work. Combeferre, set her up. Then check on Bahorel.”   

     He waits for Bossuet to take his place before leaving Enjolras. Once Éponine is hooked up to a crude needle and tube, she waits for Joly’s word, and Combeferre tries to determine what blood is Bahorel’s and what is Enjolras’. It’s strangely tranquil as they move, each action and every movement is steady and purposeful, as if read from a textbook. A surgery dictated over the phone. As Combeferre digs in to Bahorel’s bicep, just over the stitches Courfeyrac gave him a few months ago, he forbids his mind to wander. He focuses on what he was taught, on the routine procedure, on the slight hitches of breath from his friend, because if he thinks too much he’ll realize he’s in charge now.    

     Combeferre should leave. He should be leading in Enjolras’ place, speaking his words, fighting for their world. Lamarque needs to know, Courfeyrac needs to know, Javert needs to die. Combeferre needs to take a deep breath and step up, step forward and push this forward. It’s no longer a peaceful march but it never was. That was simply Enjolras pleasing him and Combeferre accepting the notion with a grateful smile. He can lead a revolution with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes. Just thinking of Enjolras sets his heart ablaze with anger. With that motivation, he could run through the entire National Guard and straight to the king. He’d grab the useless, heartless man and drag him here to see just what he’s done to his people. He can’t, though, because that means leaving Enjolras.    

     That wasn’t in the planning. This wasn’t in the planning, not really. When they considered the darker side, the death that threatened, that was inevitable, it was clean. Enjolras was dead, Combeferre stepped up. Clean. Simple. Easy to accept. Now, Combeferre just wants to curl up next to his best friend, to his brother, and wait for him to wake up. He wants to take him somewhere safe and watch the blond hair grow gray.   

     The door swings open but they don't reach for their guns. If they're found here, there's nothing left. Not even hope. Grantaire stumbles in. He stops in the doorway, his eyes landing on the mattress in the corner, Joly’s concentration and Bossuet’s steady hands. They’re covered in blood. Enjolras’ blood. The fear in Grantaire's eyes shift from horror, then to something far more frightening. Understanding. He slowly steps forward as if accepting his own fate where it hangs with Enjolras’. He sinks to the mattress, collecting Enjolras’ head so it’s resting in his lap. Joly watches the careful movements, bloody hands hesitating over Enjolras’ chest. It's unfair to ask him to move, unkind to demand him to leave. Joly only needs confirmation that he won't interfere. If it’s possibly dangerous for Enjolras, he can trust Grantaire will listen. “I need you and him to stay still, okay, R? No matter what happens, until I say, you need to stay still.”   

     The man only nods. His fingers trace the dried blood on Enjolras' cheek bones. Éponine watches him for a moment from where she’s lending blood to their chief. According to Joly, she only has two more minutes before she’ll have to be done. She ignores the time because as long as Enjolras is breathing, it doesn’t matter. She hands Grantaire a wet towel, trying to catch her friend’s eye but he doesn’t look away from Enjolras' face. He goes to work cleaning the pale skin with steady hands. When every last fleck of dirt, every last drop of blood is off the pale skin, Grantaire goes back to tracing his cheek bones, jaw line, the slight curve of his brow. Joly looks up from where he's managed to remove two of the bullets. A silent stream of tears fall off Grantaire's own jaw and he makes sure not one drops on Enjolras. Wanting to give him another task, another way to distract his surely spiraling thoughts, Joly says, “Keep your fingers here, under his jaw, okay? Tell me when it gets hard to feel his pulse.”   

     Again the man only nods but his cheeks eventually dry with that focus because _Enjolras needs him_.   

     Musichetta comes back with two gun shot wounds in her back, Feuilly with a severe concussion. A trail of blood now leads up the stairs of the Musain. Courfeyrac drags Jehan back, the boy’s tibia sticking through his jeans and his body shaking in shock. They each stop as they walk through the door, taking in Combeferre’s bloody clothes as he digs this bullet out or stitches this knife wound up, then Joly where he cuts apart Enjolras’ chest, causing more damage to fix the rest. No words are spoken outside of whispered news of this friend or that who has fallen.    

     With Courfeyrac back, Combeferre can’t ignore it anymore but with his friends bleeding he can’t leave. Something sharp stings his heart at the thought that he’s glad his friends are hurt, that he’s glad for that excuse. Ignoring it, he leaves Bahorel holding a towel over the holes in Musichetta’s back. The bullets are removed but Jehan requires more immediate attention than stitching her. As he resets his friend’s leg, Courfeyrac wanders over to Enjolras. He drops to his knees, running his hand through the curls. Grantaire glances up to him, then drops his gaze back to the slack, red lips and closed eyes, so light it looks like he’s faking sleep.    

     “What’s it looking like, Joly?” Courfeyrac asks quietly.    

     “One bullet nicked his lung, another an artery but it was lodged there which saved his life.” Joly says without looking up from where he’s stitching something inside their friend’s chest. It sounds like he’s giving a mission rundown. Straight facts, remove emotion, focus on the goal. Keeping Enjolras alive. “The last bullet is far deeper. He’s lost a lot of blood. Éponine’s already given too much and Jehan can’t. It’s a lot of damage and if he survives, he’s almost guaranteed to get an infection which he may or may not be strong enough to fight.”    

     “But he can survive?” Courfeyrac asks. It’s the only important question. It’s the only question they’ve all been avoiding. Grantaire pulls his hands away so Courfeyrac can brush the back of his fingers across his best friend’s warm skin but he keeps two fingers pressed up against Enjolras’ pulse, his heart matching the slow beat.    

     “He can,” is all Joly says. It’s all they need to hear. Courfeyrac nods, kisses Enjolras’ forehead, and demands him to stay stubborn. He shares a brief smile with Joly, then kisses Grantaire’s forehead and joins Combeferre by the sink where the man is washing his hands as best he can with the boiling water and the dirty towels.   

     “Ferre, what’s our next step?” Courfeyrac asks quietly, leaning towards his friend. Combeferre's focus stays on scrubbing his blood stained skin with the ragged towel. The torn strings of the edges get wrapped around his fingers. “Ferre? What do we do now?”   

     Combeferre looks over his shoulder, at Jehan on the mattress, his splintered leg resting painfully on a chair. Éponine rests on the ground near Enjolras’ mattress after passing out. She didn’t watch the time for Joly. Musichetta is asleep on the couch, her face hidden but the rise and fall of her back is enough reassurance for both Combeferre and Joly. Bahorel is watching the street out the window and Bossuet is trying his best to follow Joly’s quick instructions without his hands shaking as he cuts and pulls and pushes further and harder in to his friend’s chest. A shudder runs through Combeferre’s back and he turns away, back to his shaking hands.    

     “Combeferre, we planned for this.” His friend reminds him. His voice is low, strong still despite the heavy stench of blood in their home. It startles Combeferre because, no he didn’t plan for this. He didn't prepare for this. Courfeyrac may have laid there at night and mourned friends that had yet to fall and Enjolras might have seen all the friends that would no longer fall after them, should they be successful and the glory if they failed. But Combeferre didn't. He thought about the philosophy of their new government, of the children in the streets and what they would need, what they could give them. He thought of the young women with no where to go and no friends to help. He thought of how to save them all.    

     If Enjolras knew, if Enjolras saw what Combeferre saw, he'd smile that small, amazed smile and comment on how there really are good men left in the world. Combeferre was thinking of what they could do, not how much blood it would take. He wasn't thinking about what it would be like when Jehan’s blood pressure continued to drop or what they’d do when they start running low on silk thread for stitches. He didn't think of having to ask Feuilly the same questions every ten minutes and force the frown away when he gives the wrong answer each time. He didn't think of having to watch his best friend fight for life with Joly’s hands tearing him apart even more and Grantaire’s incredibly peaceful patience as he's waiting for Enjolras to let go so he can follow.    

     “I need to know. What's our next step, Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks, his voice sharpening with urgency.    

     He looks around the room a second time, half expecting to see Enjolras smiling at him. Tears threaten his eyes. Before he can answer, before he can fall to his knees and confess he doesn't know, that he doesn't want to do this anymore, Grantaire falls back. Joly flinches at the sudden movement but only Enjolras head drops at the sudden loss of support. Combeferre drops the towel and runs over to hear Joly sigh, “Oh you fucking idiot.”   

     The man’s shirt is drenched with blood, so thick you could ring it out in to a cup and just pour it back in. A patch of red stains Enjolras’ blond curls where Grantaire was holding him. Combeferre ignores how Courfeyrac followed him, expecting an answer, needing an answer, in exchange for pulling up his friend's shirt.   

     “Shot twice in the stomach.” He states. Éponine sits up, her face unreadable as she watches. Joly shakes his head, repeating _you fucking idiot_ , then goes back to his own battle against time and metal. Bossuet struggles to his feet and limps to Joly’s side, still steadily following his instructions and focusing on the rise and fall of his friend's chest. It's easier to think it’s all a stranger’s blood. Courfeyrac and Combeferre pull Grantaire to the other side of Enjolras and they both pause at the sight. It's unsettling how right it looks. Pale, bloodied lovers. A tragic play laid side-by-side.    

     Combeferre shakes his head and grabs one of the towels to start trying to save Grantaire.    

     “What do you need, Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks softly, leaning towards his friend and purposefully not looking down. Enjolras asked him to do this, begged Combeferre. Enjolras needs them to do this for him. “You can't leave but I can. I can get Lamarque.”   

     “What's it look like out there? For us.” Combeferre asks without looking up from Grantaire. On Joly’s command, Bossuet cleans a few supplies and passes them over to Combeferre. The man takes the scalpel and starts going through the steps he knows, the procedure that can work. It won't always work but it can and that's more reassurance than he has for anything outside the doors of their old home. At least Enjolras is here, he thinks suddenly. If he can't die on the battle field next to his fellow citizens, he'd want to die here, at home with his family beside him. With Combeferre and Grantaire beside him.    

     “It doesn't look good.” Courfeyrac admits. Joly’s hands hesitate for only a second as his eyes flicker up to the men across from him. “I've heard brief rumors of other rebellions having success in other cities. Rouen. Tours. Rennes. If that's true, it means the Nation Guard put their largest forces here. They weren't split as evenly as we hoped.”   

     Combeferre nods as he finds the first bullet in Grantaire's stomach.    

     “If it weren't for the Army's support, we would have been crushed already.”   

     Combeferre stitches a section of torn intestines.    

     “If Lamarque steps up, he may rally more citizens.”   

     Combeferre catches a tear in Grantaire’s stomach lining as he’s closing the wound.    

     “He may even turn the opinions of a few friends in the government.”   

     Combeferre stitches the tear.    

     “Then we may have new support inside the castle. It could scare the king.”   

     As Combeferre closes the first hole, Joly curses and his hands move over Enjolras quicker. They're too quick to be steady, to be precise, but they may be quick enough to save his life. 

     “What do you need, Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks again.   

     “Take Bahorel. He's been shot in the arm but is the best back up we have.” Combeferre commands. He's really only just agreeing to give Courfeyrac the control as he digs in the other part of Grantaire's mangled stomach. His friend nods, then kisses his cheek before kissing Enjolras forehead. Combeferre watches him leave, then goes back to digging in Grantaire's gut as Joly yells at Enjolras to _just give me a minute, you stubborn fool_.

  
  
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     They run to Lamarque’s house. At the beginning of the fight there were a few small commands patrolling the neighborhood but as Enjolras and his rebellion proved more difficult to crush, they were called back. Still, they run quickly and they run carefully. It takes a toll on Bahorel, who is far more bruised and bleeding than he let on. Courfeyrac tells him to sit, to wait outside, using the pretense of watching guard to give him the time to rest. They will have to protect Lamarque on his way to the palace, to the fight. The general has a few guards of his own but they are old and loyal, veterans of the war they followed Lamarque in. They do not fight for revolutions any more, just the man. Bahorel resists until Courfeyrac commands him, using the tone that demands there to be no arguments.    

     The veterans sit in the front room, their backs straight in their dark blue uniforms. They wear the clothes of the old Guard. Their loyalties are clear. They nod to Courfeyrac as he passes. Rising when the boy runs past them. He spares them a quick look but nothing more. Enjolras can no longer lead, not at the moment, and Combeferre doesn't want to. He’ll be ashamed and embarrassed, hurt and frustrated if this passes and he’s allowed the time to dwell on it. There will be nothing he can say or do that will lessen the guilt Combeferre will feel he owes to Enjolras. If that’s the most pain felt when this lands to a point when pain can be felt and dealt with and handled, Courfeyrac will be grateful. That may be enough to ease Combeferre’s own.     

     Right now is not that time, Courfeyrac reminds himself. Right now there are options to extinguish. He’s not a revolutionary leader, neither is Combeferre. Enjolras put too much faith in them, if he expected them to take the charge. More likely than not, he expected them to do this, to find the right leader. To put the right man in charge at the right time. Enjolras should have stayed in the back of the attack, Courfeyrac decides. He should have been protected. Courfeyrac should have protected him.

     He opens the door without knocking and stops in the doorway. His heart slows, his blood fills with an unmeasurable sense of sadness. Slowly, he nods, glancing down to his feet to allow himself time to adjust. This was his only idea, his last clutch. Courfeyrac walks lightly towards the desk, towards the General dressed in his pristine uniform, his badges and metals pinned across his chest where he lays slumped across his desk. His fine ivory pistol sits in one hand, a pen in the other. One last glass of aged whiskey sits in a tumbler beside him. Untouched. Under the dead General, are two letters, the ink smeared by the weight of the man.

     Courfeyrac lays his pen down and carefully removes the papers and with them, the old man’s last burden. The first is a half finished speech to the new Republic. It’s hopeful and inspiring, rivaling Enjolras’ own passion. They really would have made a great future together. The second is an apology to Enjolras.  _To the Chief and his lieutenants._ It's an apologize in case he dies before he’s able to take his promised position and how saddened he will be that he’ll miss Enjolras prove him wrong yet again. Courfeyrac wipes the tears from his eyes because this letter was finished. This letter was written first.

     Tucking them carefully in his shirt, he walks slowly downstairs. He’s greeted by the standing veterans, proudly waiting for their future where it lies with their General. Swallowing down the fear of uncertainty, the realization that now, all they can do is run, Courfeyrac forces himself to take the lead. To the men, he commands as strongly as he can muster, “Bury him. Bury him quickly, not properly. Before the king has a chance to make him disappear.”   

     They share a look, then nod. It’s enough reassurance for Courfeyrac to leave. These men will take care of Lamarque the way Enjolras would. Outside, Bahorel stands up quickly. When Courfeyrac shakes his head, he only nods his understanding and follows him home.

  
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     “They’re back.” Éponine says from her spot by the window. Combeferre looks up from where he’s checking Jehan’s blood pressure. It’s leveled out and that’s all he could have asked for. Éponine leans a little further out the window, then looks to Combeferre and shakes her head. “Lamarque’s not with them.”   

     Combeferre knits his brow. Before he can comprehend exactly what that means Joly shouts for him. “Ferre! He’s waking up.”    

     Enjolras’ head lolls on the mattress, his breathing suddenly quicker but his eyes don’t open until Combeferre takes his face in his hands and gently coaxes him. “Enjolras? Come on, E. Wake up. Look at me. Please, Enjolras, wake up for me.”   

     “Ferre,” slurs Enjolras softly. His voice is distant and strained, the pain and blood-loss easy to hear. His eyes are unfocused, drifting around the space above him. To their relief, though, he sounds lucid. “Combeferre. Javert. It was Javert.”   

     “I know.” Combeferre says bitterly. He hasn’t stopped berating himself for not shooting the man since Enjolras dropped to his knees. It’s when his heart stopped beating himself but at those blue eyes, it’s easier to feel it start up. “I’ll kill him, E. I’ll kill him, I promise.”   

     Enjolras shakes his head. He shifts on the mattress, holding one of Combeferre’s hand on his face. He squeezes his eyes shut before locking his gaze on his best friend. They close every few seconds as his energy fades but when he opens them, he always finds Combeferre. Joly keeps his fingers on Enjolras’ wrists, measuring his heart rate just the same as he has since he closed the last wound, since he did all he could have done.“No. No, it was Javert.”   

     “What was?”   

     “Ferre. We missed it.” His eyes close and he takes a deep breath. The door opens and, seeing Combeferre kneeling near Enjolras, Courfeyrac sprints to their side.   

     “Missed what, E? What did we miss?” Combeferre asks frantically. “What does Javert know?”   

     “Javert.” Enjolras just barely nods, a small smile twitches on his face. “He knows.”   

     “Knows what?”   

     “We were right. We were right, Ferre.” The blond squeezes his friend’s hand, leaning in to the comfort as he sinks heavier on to the bed. Combeferre encourages him to keep talking, to stay awake, until Joly pats his arm. He doesn’t look away from his best friend but tilts his head to show he’s listening.   

     “Let him sleep, Ferre. It’s a good sign he woke up at all.”   

     Reluctantly, Combeferre listens. He kisses Enjolras’ forehead, then let’s go. The blond’s head rolls on the mattress near Grantaire’s. At the contact, Grantaire shifts up in his sleep to get closer. Combeferre stands up slowly while Joly checks on them both.   

     “Lamarque is dead.” Courfeyrac tells them after kissing Enjolras’ forehead. Each one is a silent plead. The letters burn against his chest. Combeferre nods, still staring at Enjolras.    

     “Javert is here.” Éponine shouts suddenly, jumping down the window. All those who are awake turn to her.    

     “Stay here.” Combeferre commands Bahorel, grabbing the gun off of his friend’s hip as he runs down the stairs. Courfeyrac and Éponine follow at his heels, expecting the worse. Hoards of men, trailing behind the Inspector, the guard waiting for their own piece of the rebels.   

     The man is standing opposite of the Musain, waiting in the alley’s shadows. He’s watching the window and when the girl is replaced by Bahorel and a rifle, he raises his hands, stepping in to the sun.    

     Combeferre stalks across the street, gun aimed at Javert’s heart. The anger in his eyes was expected but Javert didn’t think he’d have to stiffen against the trembling in fear at the sight. “What do you know?” The boy shouts. His voice tears through his throat with a force of love. “What did you know that was worth shooting Enjolras?”   

     Javert refuses to drop the boy’s glare but he tries to stop himself from narrowing his eyes.  He tries to find his conviction as he answers. “He’s a terrorist.”   

     The trigger is pulled at the same time Courfeyrac hits Combeferre’s arm. The bullet shatters the stone between Javert’s feet. The inspector flinches, Combeferre growls at his friend, and Courfeyrac stares in shock. “You believe him.” He says softly. “You believe us.” To Combeferre, he says, “We were right. That's what E said. That's what he meant.”   

     “You are terrorists!” Javert shouts. His voice cracks, not in anger but in fear. Fear that Courfeyrac is right, that what Javert is battling is real.   

     “Then why are you here by yourself?” Courfeyrac asks.    

     The man doesn’t answer. Combeferre steps forward and punches him with the butt of the gun. Gripping the man by his collar, Combeferre shouts, “Why are you here?”   

     “Because I need to know.” He says softly, his gaze finally dropping to the cobblestones beneath them.   

     “Know what?” Combeferre growls.   

     “He’s alive.” Courfeyrac tells the man, almost gently. “For now.”   

     Javert looks up to him, then drops his gaze and nods minutely. “You must leave.”   

     “We’re not going anywhere when the king still breathes,” promise Combeferre through his clenched jaw.    

     “Then you will all die.” Javert’s eyes pinch in fear, in his conviction of that one truth. It is the only thing he knows at the moment. “You have far too few men. It is a rebellion, not a revolution and if you die here, that is all it will ever be.”    

     The grip on Javert’s collar is pried off by Courfeyrac, pushing Combeferre back across the street. He fights his friend, trying to kill the man that is killing Enjolras but Courfeyrac’s desire to save his family is stronger than his need to destroy the inspector and the irishman gets him back to the Musain. Inside, they all look to them. Eyes wide and fingers waiting for the next command. Even Jehan who can’t sit up but only rest on his elbows and Feuilly who isn’t sure what day of the week it is. Even Bahorel, with his face in a painful grimace, and Joly with his reddened hands.    

     “We need two cars. Big enough for all of us, reliable enough to get south.” Combeferre states with authority. Leading an army isn’t something he wants to do but keeping his family safe, for that he’ll die trying. “Éponine will drive one, Courfeyrac the other.” The two nod, then run down the stairs to find the trucks needed. To Joly, Combeferre says, “Get them ready. We leave in ten minutes.”   

     “E’s not strong enough to travel. It could kill him.” Joly warns. Despite his hope to stay, he knows it’s impossible.    

     “We’ll all die if we stay,” replies Combeferre evenly. He’d rather see Enjolras die on the run, trying to live long enough to fight again than be at the king’s mercy.    

     “If E could make the decision, he wouldn’t leave.”    

     “If E could make the decision, we wouldn’t have this problem, Joly.” Combeferre gives him a small, reassuring smile. Frowning, Joly nods and leaves to do his best. If Courfeyrac is right and the other cities have risen, have succeeded, they may have France. But until they have Paris, they won’t have the country and they can’t get Paris if they don’t have their lives. Combeferre only hopes Enjolras can survive long enough to try again, to succeed, to forgive him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


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